


(I've Been Waiting For A) Love Like You

by AgentStannerShipper, MHMoony



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Colorblind Soulmate AU, M/M, Partially epistolary, Period-Typical Homophobia, Proposals, also merlins bullied for being scottish but im not sure if theres a word for that, and canon character resurrection, canon character "death", oh wow theres some good angst, tss and tgc compliant more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHMoony/pseuds/MHMoony
Summary: Being soulmates doesn't mean everything will be easy. Where there can be golden joy and honey brown warmth and glowing purple love, there can also be hot red anger and deep blue sorrow and dull grey pain.But a rainbow's a rainbow, and it's worth fighting for.





	1. Open My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles are from Love Like You by Eric Hutchinson.
> 
> No art in this, because when we heard that some of the Kingsman flashbang authors would have to match with other authors because there weren't enough artists, we said fuck it and decided to be proactive and partner up. This started largely because we had some thoughts about how Harry's "death" would go down in a colorblind soulmate au, and as we planned the backstory we really wanted to write it. We had a ton of fun writing it together, especially the epistolary chapters, and we're so excited to finally share it with all of you. As a bonus, if you've been following either of our work, this is our darling Olivia's debut. We hope you love it as much as we do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian makes a new friend.

The first thing Ian notices is how large this house is. Surely, it must be a castle or mansion—the sheer size of it could swallow his own home whole. Perhaps the grey hues are only adding to its daunting frame, he thinks, and that when he finally gets to see colour just like his Aunt Isla, houses like these won’t seem so frightening anymore.

Ever since Aunt Isla took him away from his da and ma to live with her, Ian has found that even a black and white world doesn’t feel as scary as it once did. Where smashing bottles, screaming voices, and painful blows used to fill his nights, now only bedtime stories and forehead kisses remain.

Ian especially likes the story Aunt Isla tells of when the world around her transformed from dull to technicolour, that one day at the shop when she accidentally bumped into someone and knocked them over, she helped them up and all of a sudden, the cabbage was whatever colour green looked like and the aubergines were a lovely shade of violet. After hearing that story for the first time, Ian decided that he couldn’t wait to see green and violet.

“What colour is the house, Aunt Isla?” he asks as they walk up the path.

Aunt Isla smiles and glances down at him. “It’s brown,” she says. “A warm, bright brown that makes it feel welcome and like home. You know the taste of honey?”

Ian nods his head.

“It looks like that tastes.”

Ian’s eyes widen as he takes in the grand structure in a new light. Anything that looks as sweet as honey tastes must be a wonderful place indeed.

Aunt Isla lets them in with a key from her pocket, and almost immediately, another woman is enthusiastically greeting them.

“Good morning, Isla,” she says to his aunt with a peck on her cheek. “And who’ve you brought today?”

Aunt Isla gently nudges him forward. “Go on,” she says encouragingly.

“I’m Ian, ma’am,” he says politely, offering a hand out to shake, just as his aunt taught him.

There’s a twinkle in the woman’s eye as she takes his hand and shakes it. “It’s nice to meet you, Ian. I’m Mrs. Hart,” she introduces herself. “How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“Well,” Mrs. Hart says, impressed, “that’s quite an exciting age.”

“I hope it’s alright that I brought him here,” Aunt Isla says in a hushed tone. “He’s recently come to live with me, and there wasn’t anyone to watch him at home.”

“That’s just fine, Isla, no need to fret. I have a son who just turned ten,” Mrs. Hart says, turning to Ian. “Would you like to meet him?”

Ian looks questioningly up at his aunt. He isn’t one for strangers, but if Aunt Isla likes this family, then surely they can’t be all that bad. And plus, he reminds himself, their house looks like the taste of honey.

Aunt Isla nods. “I’m sure you two will hit it off straight away.”

That’s all the confirmation Ian needs to allow Mrs. Hart to lead him past the stairs and into a room where the walls are lined with bookshelves from the floor almost all the way to the ceiling. Ian can’t help how wide his eyes grow at the sight. He didn’t know one person could possibly own so many stories.

At the back of the room, a boy is sitting on the window seat, the morning light hitting him in a way that makes Ian wonder how it’s not bothering his eyes. He has a mop of curls sitting on top of his head and a book in his lap, but looks up as he hears them enter.

“Hello, Mother,” he says as his eyes flicker curiously towards Ian for a brief moment.

“Harry, dear, I have a new friend I’d like you to meet,” Mrs. Hart says. “This is Ian, he’s Isla’s nephew and he’s going to be spending the day with us. Why don’t you play together?”

Ian notices Harry eyeing him up and down, the feeling of being under surveillance making its way into Ian’s stomach. It doesn’t sit well.

Harry suddenly smiles and nods. “We’ll have a grand time, Mother.”

“That’s my boy,” Mrs. Hart says fondly as she ruffles her son’s hair. Harry scowls a bit at this and immediately goes to fix and pat it back down into place.

Mrs. Hart leaves, and Ian wishes that she had taken him with her.

Harry jumps down from his spot on the cushions and juts his hand out in front of him. “Harry Reginald Hart,” he says proudly, the same gleam in his eye that his mother had before.

Ian moves his eyes from the offered hand to Harry’s face, wondering how Harry would fair with the other boys from his school whose idea of introductions included who could shove the other the hardest into the ground.

Foregoing tackling the rich kid, Ian reaches out and shakes Harry’s hand. “Ian Hamish Campbell.”

A smirk forms on Harry’s face and, before Ian can question it, Harry’s grip on his hand tightens as he runs out the library doors, pulling Ian along with him.

Ian barely has time to process what’s happening as he stumbles to try and keep up with Harry Hart. Harry tugs him and says, “Come on, Ian, keep up,” and a sense of determination swells up inside him, picking up the pace in his strides to match them with the slightly taller boy. Ian sees a small smile form on Harry’s face, and Ian can’t help but smile, too.

Harry leads them outside into the backyard, slowing down as they approach a tall glass structure that has an abundance of plants inside, along with some fluttering wings. Ian blinks in awe at it, never having seen anything like it before. “What’s this?” he asks as they let go of each other’s hands.

“It’s our greenhouse.” Ian perks up a bit at the mention of the colour green, but says nothing as he lets him continue. “Mother recently added butterflies in it and it’s really lovely.” Ian glances over at Harry whose eyes also seem to dazzle as he looks on at it. Harry turns towards him and beams. “I’ll show you.”

Ian follows Harry into the glass house, and so many wonderful scents hit him at once, from flowers to fruits and even the rich dirt. He sees butterflies flying this way and that, landing and launching as soon as they reach their destination.

“Mother says that each butterfly is a different colour,” Harry says quietly as he walks towards one sitting on top of a tulip. He leans down and points out his index finger, and to Ian’s surprise, the butterfly flutters on top of it, almost as though it acknowledges Harry as a friend. Harry smiles and slowly gets up, walking over to Ian. “She says this one is violet and called the purple emperor.”

Ian stares down at the winged creature. “Violet,” he mumbles. “I’d very much like to see that colour.”

The purple emperor flits up and away, Ian and Harry both straining their necks to watch as it flies higher and higher.

“Yes,” Ian hears Harry say. He looks at the boy across from him, eyes still latched onto the butterfly. “I’d like that, too.”

—

They’re in Harry’s room when his Aunt Isla and Mrs. Hart come looking for them in the early evening. Harry is showing Ian the book of butterflies that his mum gave him, and next to each picture in Harry’s neat handwriting is the name of a colour.

“So when it finally happens, I’ll know what they’re called,” he had explained.

“Time to go home, Ian,” Aunt Isla says from her spot in the doorway.

Ian looks up at his aunt, and then to Harry. He and Harry are wearing matching expressions of devastation. This was the most wonderful day of Ian’s life—playing with Harry in the greenhouse, watching telly, sharing stories—and Ian isn’t ready to go home yet.

He sighs in defeat, though, knowing that he very well can’t stay here. “Bye, Harry,” he says getting up. “I had a lot of fun today.”

Instead of saying goodbye, though, Harry walks up to Aunt Isla. “Can Ian come back with you tomorrow, Isla? I’ll even help you cook breakfast and lunch and dinner,” he says hopefully.

Ian stares wide-eyed at Harry. No one has ever wanted his company besides Aunt Isla. Certainly not his parents, and most definitely none of the other children at school. He glances at his aunt who is sharing some sort of look with Mrs. Hart.

“Well,” Aunt Isla says, “if it’s alright with Mrs. Hart, then I don’t see why not.”

“You’re welcome here any time, Ian,” Mrs. Hart says warmly.

Harry turns to Ian and beams, and Ian smiles back just as wide.

For the first time in his life, Ian has made a friend.


	2. And There You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has to leave for boarding school.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Harry looks up. Even after three years in London, Ian still hasn’t managed to shake his Scottish accent, and although Harry knows some of the boys Ian goes to school with have made...less than polite comments about it, Harry still thinks it's rather nice.

Honestly, he thinks everything about Ian is rather nice. He’s in between growth spurts now, giving him a thin, gangly appearance that isn’t helped by the mess of black (is it black? It’s dark, certainly, but even though he’s curious Harry doesn’t want to ask his mother because that feels weird) hair falling across his eyes or the thick-rimmed glasses that slide down his nose every time he moves his head, but it’s an endearing sort of awkward that makes Harry feel protective of his friend. It doesn’t hurt that Ian is smart as a whip and clever in a pinch. Harry’s not sure what he’s going to do without him.

Speaking of which...He shoves his hands into his pockets, “I was just saying goodbye to the butterflies.”

Ian closes the greenhouse door with a soft click and moves towards Harry, who makes an effort not to watch him head on, glancing around at the butterflies fluttering over his head every few seconds. Ian had admitted once that he didn’t like to be watched, that it made him nervous, and since then Harry has done his best to accommodate. 

“So you’re really leaving?”

Harry nods. “I go to Eton in the morning.”

The silence stretches between them, Ian studying Harry and Harry pointedly looking around and not just at him. Harry doesn’t know what else to say.

Ian sighs and collapses onto the nearest bench, long legs stretching out in front of him as he toes at the ground. Harry gingerly takes a seat next to him, pressed against Ian from shoulder to thigh. “I know it’s important that you go,” Ian says slowly, “but is it bad that I don’t want you to?”

Harry nudges him and tries to joke, “Why? Are you going to miss me?”

“Yes.” It’s the sort of blunt answer Harry knows to expect from Ian, and it sobers him.

“I’ll write to you,” he promises. “And I won’t be gone for good. I’ll come back for holidays and things. We’ll see each other again.” The promise sounds hollow to his ears, but Harry fights back against that feeling. This is not the end. He won’t let it be.

“What colour are your uniforms?” Ian asks. Harry knows what he’s really trying to say. For all that Ian is blunt, this is the one topic he tends to dance around. Given his parents, Harry isn’t exactly surprised. Technicolour doesn’t mean a happily ever after for everyone.

“Black and white,” Harry tells him. “Even if I do meet my soulmate, that at least will look the same.” There’s a good chance it will happen. Harry hasn’t mentioned this to anyone, not even to Ian, but he has a feeling his soulmate will be a boy, and it’s fairly likely that he’ll meet him at Eton, if not at university after.

“Once you meet your soulmate, you’re not going to want to hang around with a broke kid from Edinburgh,” Ian says quietly. “You won’t need me to be your friend anymore.”

Harry turns sharply, and Ian startles at the motion, so that when he glances over at Harry their eyes lock, Harry only a few centimeters from Ian’s face as he says fiercely, “I never want to hear you say that again.”

“Harry-”

“No, listen. You, Ian Hamish Campbell, are the best friend I have ever had, and I wouldn’t give you up, not for all the soulmates or money or...or all the butterflies in the world. Do you understand me?”

Ian nods slowly, although Harry can’t tell if he believes him or if he’s just trying to placate Harry. Harry stands up and offers out his hand to Ian, “Come on. Come help me pack.”

Ian doesn’t take it, but he does stand up, “You’re leaving tomorrow and you aren’t packed yet?”

Harry shrugs, “I didn’t think there was any rush.”

Ian rolls his eyes, “Alright, Harry. Let’s get your sorry arse packed for school.”

Harry covers his mouth, gasping in mock horror, “Language!”

“You’ve said worse than that.”

“Yes, but you’re a child!”

“You’re thirteen, and I’m only two years younger than you.” Ian holds open the door for him. Harry gives the greenhouse one last look, the vibrantly glowing plants in various hues of light grey, the fluttering butterflies spanning from black to white dashing through beams of pale sunlight. Then he looks at Ian, grey eyes watching him expectantly, always watching, and smiles.

\---

Harry squirms in his mother’s grip as she smothers him with another hug, “You’re sending me away to school, Mother, not the war. I’ll be coming home.”

“I know,” she says, finally releasing him. “It’s just hard to see my little boy growing up.”

Harry’s father snorts, “At least at that school they won’t have you chasing butterflies all day. Maybe they can even get you to join a sports team.”

Harry ignores the jab. His father really does love him, so Harry can overlook the fact that he thinks lepidoptery is the opposite of manly. Not that Harry has any real interest in being ‘manly.’ Gentlemanly, perhaps, but that’s a horse of an entirely different colour. 

He offers out his hand for his father to shake, but after a sharp eye from his wife, Harry’s father pulls him into a short hug, patting him on the back. “Good luck, son.”

“Thank you, Father.” Harry pulls away, and then smiles over at Isla. She’s watching the exchange, Ian by her side. She looks happy. Ian looks like a dog has just thrown up on his shoe and then licked his face. Harry approaches them and stretches up, kissing Isla on the cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

“I work for you,” she reminds him, “it’s my job.” But her voice is warm.

“Your job is to clean up after us,” Harry says, “and I do apologize for being so messy as a child.” She laughs, and he says, “but everything else...you were like a second mother to me, and you didn’t have to be. And you brought Ian into my life. So really, I can’t thank you enough.” 

She laughs again, “You’re going to be quite the charmer some day, Harry Hart.” She reaches out and pulls him in for a hug, and Harry hugs her back. Then he turns to Ian.

His friend, for once, isn’t watching Harry. He’s staring at the ground, scuffing it with his shoe, lips twisted into a poorly masked frown. Harry puts a hand gently on his shoulder, and Ian looks up. “I’ll write to you,” he promises again. “Every day, if you want.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ian scoffs. His voice is just a little choked, like he’s holding back tears.

“Every week?”

Ian smiles, clearly in spite of himself. “How about when you have a minute,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll be busy.”

“Never too busy for you.”

And, because he’s going to miss his best friend and because he can, Harry pulls Ian in for a tight hug. Ian returns it, and Harry isn’t sure who is holding on tighter. He’s also sure that neither of them wants to be the first to let go.

In the end, it’s Ian who releases him. His voice is thick when he says, “Alright. You need to go, or you’re going to be late.”

Harry doesn’t say “It’d be worth it to spend one more minute with you.”

What he does say is, “I suppose I’d better head out then. After all, the sooner I leave, the sooner I can come back.”

Ian nods, but his eyes are sad. “Aye.”

Harry allows himself one last look, at his friend, his family, his house, and then climbs into the car and leaves it all behind.


	3. Standing at a Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even distance can't keep Harry and Ian apart.

_12 September 1973_

_Dear Ian,_

_I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I did mean to write, I really did, but with the school year starting and everything that’s been happening I’m afraid time ran away with me. I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten about you. You know I never could. Forget about you, that is._

_I have my own room, which I was terribly concerned about. I know it makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but the thought of having to share a bedroom with anyone was ghastly to me. You know, you’re the only person it didn’t bother me with? When I was very young, Mother would sometimes invite the cousins over, and rather than stay in their own rooms (lord knows we have plenty) they’d stay in my room. Some kind of childhood bonding ritual, I suppose. I hated it. But it wasn’t so bad with you. I always felt bad having you kip on the floor, though. Anyway, the walls are a little bland, but they’re not so terrible to look at. Maybe I’ll hang something to liven them up a bit. I haven’t decided._

_Classes are a bit dull, but that’s to be expected. I’m sure they’ll pick up as the school year goes on. You always were the better student. I miss your help on my maths; I don’t know how I’ll survive the semester without you. I’m trying to convince one of my teachers to help me begin a butterfly club. I’m sure my father would be appalled._

_Some of the older boys here can already see in colour, but a few of the teachers haven’t even met their soulmates yet. Can you imagine; being in your fifties and still seeing in black and white? I can’t imagine having to wait so long. Then again, you know me. Patience was never my strong suit._

_I really do miss you. I hope you’ll be around when I come back over break. I’m already looking forward to it. And, of course, I want to hear about all your adventures back home! I hope it’s not too terribly dull without me there._

_Eagerly awaiting your reply,_

_Harry_

 

_27 September 1973_

_Hello Harry,_

_It only took a week for you to write, Harry, it’s not like you’ve been gone for months yet. It really is good to hear from you, though. I never thought you’d forgotten about me, maybe just…too busy or preoccupied with other things to have the time to sit down and write a letter._

_I don’t think any other person in the world would’ve been able to deal with your high maintenance arse as a roommate, so it’s a blessing for all the other boys over there, really. Who else could handle you asking for the thousandth time if the pillows were fluffed in just the right way? Even Aunt Isla couldn’t convince you they were fine._

_But in all seriousness, I’m glad to hear you’re having a good time so far over there. I’m sure that your classes will be even more exciting with all of those fancy teachers and all that. Your maths were always more fun than mine. Maybe one day we can somehow talk and see each other at the same time, like a telephone and telly, all wrapped into one? Does that sound possible? As for your walls, why don’t you put up the photographs your mum packed for you? Those would work, wouldn’t they? Toss whatever your father says, I think a butterfly club would be great. Imagine those being the first things you see when you finally see colour._

_I really miss you, Harry. It’s been rough since I don’t get to look forward to seeing you on the weekends anymore. You know what the other boys at my school are like. They haven’t let up since the new term began. If anything, they’ve gotten right meaner, and I didn’t think that was possible. Rupert and Timothy chased me almost all the way home the other day, but I made a quick cut through the neighbour’s yard and lost them. I keep on imagining giving one of them a bloody nose one of these days, but then I remember what your mum always told us. Manners maketh man._

_But enough about that. It must be strange to meet your soulmate at school. What if you’re in a crowd of people and you don’t know who you exactly looked at? Or worse, you start seeing colour and your supposed soulmate still sees black and white? One of my classmates yesterday was talking about how that happened to his older sister. I don’t know what would be worse, really, being old and never seeing colour, or seeing colour and your soulmate not seeing the same._

_Also…I won’t be able to see you during the holiday this year. We’re going back to Edinburgh for Christmas and the rest of the holidays, and Aunt Isla said that we won’t be back in London until right when term starts again. I’m really, really sorry, Harry. But like you said before you left, we’ll see each other again. I’m sure of it._

_This has gotten awfully sad, I’m sorry about that, too._

_In happier news, Aunt Isla let me get a puppy! She’s a Great Dane and her name is Minnie. I wanted to name her Uhura, but Aunt Isla suggested something easier for her to understand. I really hope you get to meet her one day, she’s real nice and loves to play with people._

_God, this letter’s gotten rather long. I suppose I’ll stop here, then. Have you seen any butterflies since you’ve been there? Made any new friends? Surely someone like you has to have made loads by now._

_Don’t get into too much trouble over there,_

_Ian_

 

_2 October 1973_

_Dear Ian,_

_I have put up the pictures my mother packed and you’re right, they do make the room feel more homey. I wish you were in more of them. I never did understand your aversion to the camera. And for your information, there’s nothing wrong with liking to be comfortable...Am I really such a terror to deal with? I know I can be a touch fussy, but I’m not that bad, am I?_

_And you are utterly wasted on your idiotic classmates. A telephone and a television in one? What would you even call it? Still, it’s brilliant. And while my mother is a brilliant woman in her own right, sometimes teaching a lesson in manners requires a bit of...additional persuasion. If I see Timothy or Rupert when I’m home on break, I doubt I’ll have as much self-control as you._

_While I do hope there are butterflies around when I first see colour, I can’t much imagine that happening. There aren’t many scenarios outside the greenhouse that involve butterflies. I suppose pictures, maybe, but it’s not quite the same as the real thing. What about you? When you first see colour, what’s the first thing you want to see? Other than your soulmate, of course. She’ll be a very lucky woman, landing someone as intelligent as you._

_And dear lord, I never even thought about that! Meeting your soulmate in a crowd seems awful and complicated, but even worse, it not being requited? I hadn’t known that was possible. It’s a frightful concept. God, now I won’t be able to stop thinking about it._

_I wish you weren’t going back to Scotland for Christmas. If you want to, I’m happy for you, of course, but I will miss seeing you in person. Are you going to visit your parents? If you are, you will be safe, won’t you? I’d hate to think of anything happening to you. Either way, I suppose we can try again when I break in the spring._

_It might be a bit late in the term to start a butterfly club, but maybe next year. I haven’t actually seen any new butterflies here, other than in textbooks, but there have been a few out in the gardens. It’s hard to tell what species they are without the colours, you know. Sometimes seeing everything in shades of grey is so incredibly frustrating. Can you imagine being a lepidopterist and not being able to see in colour? If I don’t meet my soulmate sooner rather than later, I may have to reconsider my career path._

_I have made a few friends. There’s a boy, Eric, who I have a lot of classes with. He’s very nice. He helps me study for all my maths exams. He’s not as good at it as you, but with his help I’ll at least pass the class. And there’s a girl too. Her name is Margaret, but she tells everyone to call her Peggy. She doesn’t go to school here, of course, but she’s the daughter of one of my teachers and I see her around the campus sometimes. She’s very nice. She likes butterflies too! They’re both nice enough to be around, and I do have fun with them, but not as much fun as I had with you. People seem to like me well enough, but I have more acquaintances than real friends. Side effect of me spending most of my time with you, I suppose; I never got good at making new friends._

_What about you? Surely not everyone at your school is an idiot and a bully. Any new friends to speak of? Without some pampered rich boy filling all of your hours, I imagine you must have picked up some hobbies of your own. Are you still taking apart toasters and driving your aunt mental?_

_Send me a photo of Minnie so I can put her up on my wall! I’d love to meet her. You know I adore dogs almost as much as I love butterflies._

_Missing you terribly,_

_Harry_

 

_13 October 1973_

_Hello Harry,_

_Being behind the camera is far more fun than being in front of it. Then again, you were always the more photo-ready between the two of us. Harry, you tosser, I was only joking about your pillow fluffing habits. I’d give anything if I could lie in my sleeping bag on your bedroom floor again._

_I have no idea what a telephone-television contraption would be called, but it certainly would be spectacular, wouldn’t it? Maybe someday. And please don’t spend your holiday going around beating up my classmates. Those two arseholes aren’t worth it, anyhow._

_I suppose that’s true, about the butterflies. Who knows, though? Perhaps you’ll be lucky and will be in some butterfly garden or something like that when you meet your soulmate. She’s going to be especially lucky with you, too, you know, with how much you pay attention to people you care about. You’ll spoil your soulmate rotten, I’m sure of it. I think when I see mine, though, I’d like to see…a telly. Aunt Isla says that there are so many colours on television shows and since what’s on the screen is always changing, there’s always new colours to see._

_It’s right horrifying thinking about either of those happening, seeing colour but not finding your soulmate or your soulmate not seeing colour, isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when he had said that, and it made for quite the awkward pep talk from our teacher afterwards. Don’t think about it too much, though. It won’t do you any good._

_If I could somehow stay in London and not go see my parents for Christmas, Boxing Day, and New Years, then I absolutely would. Unfortunately, Aunt Isla thinks that it’ll be good for me to see them after being away for a few years. But I promise I’ll be safe and watch out for myself and Aunt Isla. The spring sounds more promising, so I hope we’ll see each other again then._

_I’m sure you’ll find your soulmate, Harry. Most people find theirs in places like Eton and uni, don’t they? You’ve already got a leg up on me for boarding school. Your lepidoptery dreams aren’t on hold yet._

_And what, you’re blaming me now for your lack of talent in finding friends? Don’t go using me as an excuse for not getting closer with Eric and Peggy. They sound rather nice. Try and spend more time with them, yeah?_

_There’s a new boy at my school, actually, who’s just moved here from Glasgow. His name is Cameron. We’ve been getting on well, especially since Rupert and Timothy have found it doubly exciting to torment the two of us since we’re both the schemies from the north. He comes over sometimes after school and we do our homework together._

_I’m not driving Aunt Isla mad by taking apart the toaster. I’m driving her mad by taking apart the telephone. But I was able to replace the rotary with one of those button pads with the numbers, so she wasn’t too cross with me afterwards._

_And, as you’ve probably already seen, there’s a polaroid of Minnie and me. Aunt Isla insisted that I be in the photo, too, so there you go. One more of me to go on your wall. But isn’t she beautiful? She’s supposed to grow quite tall, and I’m very excited for when that happens._

_Have your classes gotten interesting yet? Found any secret hideaways, since I know you love those? I hope you’re doing well still. I miss you a lot. Cameron’s all well and good, but he’s definitely not you._

_Please make friends and don’t go moping about me,_

_Ian_

 

\---

 

_9 February 1975_

_Dear Ian,_

_Why is it that teachers always seem to assign the most work the week before it’s time to go home on break? I’ve been absolutely drowning in it. The good news is that I’m finally getting the hang of maths without needing extra help. The bad news is that it’s largely out of necessity; ever since he met his soulmate last month, Eric hasn’t had much time for anyone besides her. Do people not know that your soulmate doesn’t need to be your entire world? You won’t do that to me when you meet yours, will you? A soulmate is well and good, but it’s not worth abandoning all your friends over. I still have Peggy, of course, but I don’t see her as often because of her schedule this year. It’s awfully lonely. I miss you more than ever._

_Of course, it doesn’t help that I haven’t seen you in ages. The photos are all well and good, and I know you did brilliantly at that gifted program over the summer (see, what have I been saying? So much talent, someone was bound to recognize it eventually), but you’d think one of these days we’d actually be in the same place at the same time! It seems the universe is conspiring against us._

_As to your last question, no, I haven’t been able to get more people interested in the butterfly club. I’m going to have to disband it if we don’t get more members. Shame. Well, it was fun while it lasted. I’m not sure what extracurriculars I’ll have left without it. I might even have to take up a sport. Won’t my father be proud?_

_Speaking of fathers, I will not hesitate to lay a hand on yours if he doesn’t stop coming around. I don’t care what Mother says about manners. He missed his chance at having an absolutely wonderful son, and anyone who treats you like that doesn’t deserve to have you in their life. Tell me you’re at least standing up for yourself, if not to him then at least to the boys at school. Are they still being dreadful to you? Cameron’s still around, isn’t he? I’d hate to think of you being as lonely as I feel._

_Minnie’s getting so big! Thank you for the new picture of her. And the new glasses suit you, I might add. The old frames made them look too big for your face, but these ones are nice. You look very smart. I can’t imagine what I’d look like in glasses; hideous, I’d imagine, but you manage to pull them off. Of course, I can almost hear your response to that. You’d tell me to stop being such a vain peacock. I do miss your voice. I’d almost forgotten what a Scottish accent even sounds like!  Do tell me I’ll see you over spring break?_

_Ever hopeful,_

_Harry_

 

_28 February 1975_

_Hello Harry,_

_I’m awfully sorry that my letters have been getting more infrequent. I can relate with you on the excess of work, though. When Aunt Isla and I asked my teachers if it were possible to provide me with anything more challenging, they took that to mean to multiply the quantity of my schoolwork rather than the quality. State education is more trying than it has any right to be. Thank god your dormitories finally added in those telephones so we can talk in between the long breaks of our letter writing._

_That’s good to hear about your maths, but not as good to hear about Eric. I don’t think I could rid of you once I find my soulmate even if I tried, and it wouldn’t be because of you jumping through hoops to see me. I only hope the same is for you. When you find her, please don’t leave me to the wayside. It’s been difficult enough not seeing you for over a year as it is._

_Aunt Isla says that I’m probably as tall as, or if not, taller than you by now. No more taking the piss out of me for being shorter than you now, eh? The photos you send me are nice, too, but I know what you mean. The real thing would be even nicer._

_I know I’ve said this before, but if I were there, I’d go to every one of your butterfly club meetings. I don’t understand why others aren’t joining, but at least you gave it a try. I’m sure your butterflies back at your greenhouse were feeling jealous of the attention you’ve been giving other butterflies, anyway. If you do join a sport, please don’t think about your father. You’ve always liked cricket, haven’t you? Why not try that out for a change?_

_For all that growing up a gentleman you’ve had, you’re always sure and ready for fisticuffs, aren’t you? Aunt Isla said that we don’t have to go around to them anymore for the holidays (thank God), so maybe this will finally be the year we see each other again! Two years are far too long to go without seeing your best friend._

_Rupert and Timothy are as vile as ever, but at least they’ve calmed down on the physical aspects of their attempted torture._

_The oddest thing has been happening with Cameron, actually. He’s been looking out of sorts and upset the last couple weeks, so I finally asked him what was wrong the other day. He was all quiet, and then told me that my trousers were blue! I asked if he’d found his soulmate (which, in retrospect, I realise was a stupid question to ask), and he said he has, but he didn’t look at all happy about it. If anything, he looked devastated. I’ve tried talking to him about it more, but he’s insistent that he’s fine and doesn’t wish to discuss the matter. He’s been so torn over the whole thing, he doesn’t even come over anymore to do homework or watch telly. I hope he’ll start feeling better soon, though. What’s the point of seeing colour if you can’t enjoy it?_

_Minnie is gigantic, but seems to not know exactly how large she is. She still think she’s small enough to sit in my lap, but ends up with practically half her body on the rest of the sofa. Thanks about the glasses, also. The half-wires don’t touch the tops of my cheeks like the other ones, so that’s rather nice. And you’re almost right. Yes, you’re an absolute peacock who should stop worrying about your looks, but I do think you’d be able to pull off glasses quite nicely. Maybe even my old pair._

_The fact that you’re forgetting the glorious sound of the Scottish voice is unacceptable. You must go find someone to remind you of it. That way, you can remember…that we in the north sound far better than the rest of you down here._

_Aunt Isla has actually surprised me for my birthday with a trip to France when you’re here on break. She said she was sorry, and she really is, but these were the only times she could get off, trading shifts with one of your family’s other staff. And honestly, she really does deserve a nice holiday in the south of France, and if she wants me there with her, well, you know I’d do anything for her._

_But there’s always Christmas!_

_I’m still missing you,_

_Ian_

 

_16 March 1975_

_Dear Ian,_

_I couldn’t leave you even if I found my soulmate. Perish the thought! Anyway, any soulmate who isn’t...well, who isn’t alright with me spending time with you isn’t worth having at all. And speaking of soulmates, you don’t think Cameron’s is unrequited, do you? That might be why he’s behaving so oddly. If you see him again, perhaps remind him that there’s more to life than soulmates; friends are worth having too. I write this and think of you fondly, and I don’t care if you call me ridiculous, because I sorely miss my best friend._

_Also, how dare you get taller than me? I’m older than you! Next time I see you we shall have to measure, because that simply isn’t fair. Although your legs always were unreasonably long. I suppose it’s about time you started growing into them. And I’ve got a few growth spurts left in me yet. We’ll see who ends up the taller. And you must admit I have better hair. Don’t go off on me about peacocking again, you know it’s true! Yours would look better if you did something with it, you know. You could at least comb it._

_I’m actually considering taking up cricket. It’s too late to start this season, but I think I’ll try out next year. I do like the sport, although we’ll see how I do when it’s actually competitive. It’s not as manly as rugby, but I think my father might well give up on me ever being, in his words, ‘a real man.’ Who knows, maybe someday I’ll take up boxing or something. Anyway, I’m done caring what he thinks about it. Although maybe you should take up a sport too. Being locked away tinkering all day can’t be good for the complexion. Get outside, get a bit of sun. I bet you’d be brilliant at rugby._

_I’m glad Timothy and Rupert have laid off you a bit. I know words can hurt just as much as actions, but at least you won’t have to run anymore. And you’re cleverer than they are anyway. I’m sure you can think of brilliant comebacks. Not that neanderthals like them could appreciate it. Don’t ever let them make you think you aren’t incredible, Ian. It’s a filthy lie, and I won’t stand for it._

_I’m sorry to hear your workload is getting you down too. Are you enjoying any of it? Surely not all of your teachers can be awful. Obviously I don’t know a thing about state education, but if there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you, let me know._

_Shame about spring break, although I expect you to tell me absolutely everything about France. In all our holidays, Mother and Father have still never taken me there. Father has a thing about the French. I’ll cross my fingers for seeing you this summer, but odds are you’ll be off being a genius again without me again. Still, you deserve it. A mind as clever as yours shouldn’t be held back by a boy who can barely do his maths right! You’re going to do amazing things, you know._

_Dear lord, look at me being mopey and depressing. If not summer, than certainly Christmas, as you said. At least, I dearly hope so. I look forward to seeing Minnie as well. I hope she isn’t taller than me as well._

_Still missing you badly,_

_Harry_

 

_17 April 1975_

_Hello Harry,_

_It’s been ages since I sent you my last letter, and I’m so sorry about that. I’ve started tutoring after school to try and earn some money. Uni isn’t going to pay for itself, after all. That’s very kind of you to say, Harry. I honestly don’t even know how to respond other than thank you. I’d pick you over a soulmate any day._

_I took your advice and talked to Cameron. I had to nearly corner him before classes started to ask if we could talk after school since he stopped coming over to my house. I told him what you said about how having friends can sometimes be worth more than having a soulmate (because it is something I wholeheartedly agree on with you), and he just sort of looked at me funny. He asked me if I’d seen any colour yet, and I told him no, I hadn’t. And then he said I wouldn’t understand and walked away, but he looked sadder than I’d ever seen him. I hate that I can’t relate to him on this, because I’m sure that’s what he needs right now, someone who knows what he’s going through and that’s why he hasn’t opened up to me about it yet. He hasn’t talked to me since, and I really miss spending time with him. He was the closest friend I had here, and he was always there for me on the days I was missing you terribly. Hopefully, everything will sort itself out and he’ll be feeling better about everything soon. I hate to think of him suffering alone like this._

_Shall we place a bet, then? I bet five quid that we’ll be the same height when we see each other again because God knows you haven’t stopped growing since being away. And as to your hair, I won’t admit a thing. Peacock._

_A real man is a man who does what he enjoys and treats others with respect and dignity. As far as I’m concerned, you already have all of that and then some. You’ve said it about my father many times, and now I’ll say the same to you: if he can’t see what an incredible son you are, then he doesn’t deserve a lick of an opinion on you. You’re wonderful, Harry, don’t listen to him. And I know I already told you about my starting to play rugby, but I didn’t even tell you about the other lads I play with! They’re all a bit older than me, around your age, but they don’t treat me like I’m smaller than them. And that’s not just because I’m taller than a good third of them. I may not have Cameron anymore, but now I have all of them, and they’re great fun._

_Have you been able to spend time with Peggy since we last spoke? Has Eric calmed down a bit about only being around his soulmate? What about the other members of the butterfly club, do you still meet with them, fighting the good fight to not become disbanded? I hope you have. And how’s cricket going?_

_Maybe you could convince your mum to go sometime, just you and her. It’d be a much better holiday with just the two of you, wouldn’t it? I’m afraid I’m off to the advanced education programme this summer again, but I’m still holding out for Christmas. The holidays will come soon enough, Harry, I’m sure of it._

_Then you can pay me my five quid._

_Can’t wait to win the bet,_

_Ian_

 

\---

 

_1 December 1976_

_Dear Ian,_

_I can’t remember if I told you yet; we just finished up the cricket season on a win! No thanks to me, of course, I’m still not very good, but I do have tremendous fun playing it. I know rugby season should be starting soon for you (if it hasn’t already) and I hope that goes well. Oh, and the butterfly club has officially been saved! I managed to convince a lot of the new students this year to join me, and we finally have enough membership so it’s not teetering precariously on the edge of being disbanded. Even better, for once in my life I’m scoring well in maths without extra help. The tips you sent me over the summer really made it easier for me to grasp, so thank you again._

_For once, it seems there’s good news all around. Peggy just met her soulmate! Here, if anything, is proof that Eric is a right twat for abandoning me last year. Peggy and I see each other plenty often, and I’ve even met her soulmate a few times. Actually, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. Peggy made me promise. But it’s just you, and I trust you. You won’t go telling anyone about it, I don’t think. Peggy’s soulmate is a girl. She’s very sweet. Her name is Deloris. I don’t understand why it still has to be so hush-hush, having a soulmate of the same sex. This is the twentieth century, after all._

_…_

_I told myself I wasn’t going to write this. I know we’ve talked about it over the past few years, what sort of people our soulmates might be, and I just...Ian, I don’t think my soulmate will be a woman. I’ve been fairly sure for awhile, but you made that comment a few weeks ago, the one where you joked that I’m more likely to end up a trophy husband than have a trophy wife, and I thought about it for a very long time afterwards. You’re my best friend, and I just didn’t want to keep it inside, a secret, any longer. At least, not from you. If that’s repulsive to you, I understand. Crumple up this letter, set it on fire, I don’t care. Well. I care. But I understand._

_If, by some small miracle, you aren’t disgusted by me, then I hope I’ll see you for Christmas. I know we were so certain of it last year, before my mother told me we had to go visit my uncle’s family because his wife was too sick to travel and...why am I telling you this? You know. Nerves, I suppose. With you gone being brilliant over the summer, and then the disaster at Christmas, and then Paris with my mother over spring break, it’s been, what, three years now? I don’t want the last time I saw you to be, well, the last. And as much as I wanted to see the beauty of Paris (and it certainly did live up to expectations), I wanted to see your smiling face far more._

_That’s not...fuck, that’s not a come-on, I promise. You’re probably not even still reading at this point, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’re my best friend, Ian. I don’t want to lose you. I’m going to stop writing and mail this before I lose my nerve._

_Anxiously awaiting your reply,_

_Harry_

 

_7 December 1976_

_Hello Harry,_

_I love and miss my best friend and he better have a bloody smile on his face when he sees me at his family’s Christmas party in two and a half weeks._

_See you very soon,_

_Ian_

_PS: Aunt Isla says I’ve grown more this year. Have your five quid ready._


	4. Look Into My Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ian meet for the first time in three years.

Harry steps out of the car, his stomach strangely heavy as he takes in the sight of home. The door opens, and his heart leaps into his throat, only to plummet again when he sees that it’s just his mother. Right. Christmas. Still, Harry had thought that maybe, if Ian wasn’t too busy, he might have come a bit earlier to see Harry. His last letter had made Harry cry, that one short sentence full of so much more earnest sentiment than if Ian had written Harry a ream of reassurances. Ian didn’t hate him. Ian didn’t think Harry was repulsive for being gay. And Harry would see him for Christmas. He just had to be patient. He’d waited three years. What was two weeks more?

Harry greets his mother with a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, Mother.”

“We missed you, Harry,” she smiles.

“I missed you too, Mother.” He hesitates. “Is...has Isla said anything about Ian coming around?”

His mother laughs. “No, but I suppose you can ask her when she arrives later. It’s been far too long since you boys have seen each other, hasn’t it?”

Harry nods earnestly. His stomach twists again. Three years. So much has changed…

“I’m going to go say hello to the butterflies now, if that’s alright with you,” he says. The greenhouse is still where he feels most comfortable.

His mother pats him on the shoulder, “Go on, then. Just make sure you greet your father when he gets home this evening.”

“I will, Mother.” Harry takes his leave.

The greenhouse is more or less how he left it. He runs his fingers over the petals of one of the flowers, and one of the butterflies (the purple emperor, he thinks, although he’s not positive) flutters down to land on his index finger. He lifts it higher so he can take a proper look at it, and smiles. “Hello, there.” It may still be grey, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. The longer he has to live with it, the more Harry is realizing that maybe grey isn’t so bad. He could get used to it if it meant…

He doesn’t get the opportunity to explore that train of thought, because there’s the sound of the greenhouse door swinging open, and the butterfly takes flight at the sound. Harry wonders briefly if maybe his mother has followed him, and he turns to look.

“I heard you got back today, and I know we said Christmas but I didn’t want to-”

Harry stops and stares. Ian freezes mid sentence, eyes wide, blinking in disbelief, and Harry can only hope it’s for the same reason.

Harry takes back what he said about getting used to grey because _oh_. The plants are green, so many shades of green, deep and rich all the way to light and delicate, and they shine even more brightly in colour than they do without. And the butterflies…

He looks up, laughing, delighted, because the butterflies are flapping about overhead, completely oblivious to the fact that Harry’s world has just shifted on its axis. They’re so many colours, the whole rainbow, and Harry can pick out the purple emperor where it's gone back to the flower and violet is exactly as lovely as he imagined.

When he looks back at Ian again, his friend (his _soulmate_ ) hasn’t moved a muscle, still blinking at him in shock. Something dark steals into Harry’s chest, constricting his heart, and he takes a step towards him and asks carefully, “Ian?”

Ian’s mouth snaps shut. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Weakly, like he’s trying to make a joke, he says, “It’s not green.”

Harry frowns, “What?”

“The greenhouse. I thought it’d be green. It’s not.”

Harry takes another hesitant step forward, bringing him and Ian less than half a meter away from each other. “Can you…?” he stops, takes a deep breath. “I mean…” He has to know, has to be sure.

“Honey,” Ian says, nonsensically. Harry blinks, his frown deepening, and Ian smiles, incredulous and shy and nervous and thrilled all at once. “It’s something Aunt Isla said once. She was talking about your house. She said it was brown, that it looked like honey tastes. Warm, and welcome, and like home.” Ian’s not just watching Harry this time; he’s studying him, drinking him in. “Your eyes are brown,” he says. “Brown like honey. Brown like home.”

The thought makes Harry want to tear up, but he fights the feeling because this is the best moment of his life and he doesn’t want tears making his eyes blurry, doesn’t want to miss a moment of this. Ian doesn’t like to be watched, but Harry’s thinks he’s earned the right to look, because he’s seeing in colour (and even the thought sends another thrill through him), and Ian’s hair _is_ black, just like Harry thought, and his eyes…

Harry laughs, and it’s Ian’s turn to frown. “Your eyes are grey,” Harry tells him, unable to keep the mirth from his voice. “All this lovely colour, and I get to keep one little bit of grey.” He can’t help reaching out, needing to touch Ian, needing to know this isn’t a dream, that they’re both really here, that this is really happening. He’s not going to be alone, doomed to still see in black and white when he’s in his fifties. He’s sixteen, and already he’s found his soulmate.

The thought abruptly chills him like a bucket of cold water dashed over his head, and he aborts the movement, snatching his hand back sharply. “You’re fourteen.”

Ian blinks, and then raises an eyebrow, “And you’re sixteen. That’s hardly a massive age gap. Plenty of soulmates are a decade or more apart. What’s two years?”

“It’s not...I don’t know, creepy?”

Ian rolls his eyes, “You’re my _soulmate_ , Harry. The universe or fate or whatever put us together. You’re my best friend, and as I said, two years isn’t all that much. It’s not like we’re going to be having sex yet.”

Ian’s frank tone eases the discomfort in Harry’s chest, and he smiles. “All that worrying,” he says, “all that fretting that you’d find someone else and not need me anymore, or that maybe you’d be my soulmate and I wouldn’t be yours...after everything, I can’t believe…”

“I can’t believe I get to have you,” Ian finishes for him. He hesitates, and Harry watches as those beautiful grey eyes cloud over in fear, “Shit.”

“What?”

“Your parents.”

“What about them?”

Ian takes a step back, runs his hand through his hair and knocking the disheveled strands even more askew. “I’m not...Harry, I’m not the sort of person that someone like you has for a soulmate.”

“The universe begs to differ.”

Ian huffs, “No, I mean...it’s not just that I’m a boy, Harry. I’m not even close to the same class as you.”

“Ian, I don’t give a toss about that,” Harry shakes his head, stepping towards Ian, who steps back again.

“Maybe you don’t, but your parents might.”

“My mother adores you.”

“As your _friend_ , Harry. As the nephew of the help who hangs around and keeps you out of trouble. Can you honestly tell me she’d want me as a son? Can you tell me your father will?”

Harry opens his mouth to argue, and then closes it without protest. He wants to say yes, they love Ian, they’ll love having him as part of the family, but the truth is he doesn’t know. His father has made it no secret what he thinks of Harry’s queer tendencies - in both senses of the word - and while Harry’s mother does like Ian, he knows his parents are both hoping for a soulmate appropriate for keeping the family legacy alive.

“I love you,” he says helplessly, because that, at least, is the honest, unavoidable truth.

The fear in Ian’s eyes softens, and he manages a smile, “I love you too. I just...maybe we shouldn’t tell your parents.”

Harry bites his lip. He’s torn; on the one hand, he wants to scream from the rooftops that he, Harry Hart, is the lucky man to have gotten Ian Hamish Campbell as his soulmate. But on the other, he doesn’t want to disappoint his parents.

Finally, he asks, “What should we do? I don’t know how long I’ll be able to pretend that I’m not seeing the world in colour.”

“If you slip up, just tell them you met someone at school.”

“And if they ask to meet them? What am I supposed to do then?”

Ian shrugs, “Ask Peggy if she’d be interested? If she and her soulmate aren’t out, then you are friends. Your parents might buy it.”

It still doesn’t sit quite right with Harry, but he nods, “Alright.” He reaches out again, unable to stop himself this time, and draws Ian in for a tight hug. It feels good to hold him again, after three years, and Ian clings to him tightly. He’s not thin and gangly anymore; rugby has filled out his muscles and made him feel solid. He fits wonderfully in Harry’s arms.

They break apart but don’t separate, still close, still holding on. Harry eyes Ian, “No. No, I think I’m taller than you.”

Ian bursts out laughing, and shoves Harry playfully. “Just you wait. I’m not done growing yet.”

\---

“Thank you for letting me stay for dinner, Mrs. Hart,” Ian says politely.

She waves his gratitude off, “It’s nothing. After so long apart, keeping you and Harry from each other seems almost cruel.”

Harry grins across the table at him, “I expect to see him as often as possible over the holidays. Three years is far too long to go without seeing your best friend.”

Harry’s father clears his throat, “I heard the cricket season went well this year.”

Harry nods, “We did very well.”

“You’re still messing about with that butterfly club?”

He really can’t help the way he lights up, “Oh, I can’t wait to go back for that!” The other members will be so jealous that he can see the butterflies in proper colour.

His mother laughs, “Surely the ones in the greenhouse are enough for you?”

“Well, yes, but…” Harry trails off. How does he explain any of this without admitting he’s found his soulmate?

His mother frowns at him in concern and sets down her fork, “Is everything alright, Harry? Did something happen?”

Harry sighs and curses his mother for being so perceptive. “The thing is-” he begins.

“You found your soulmate, didn’t you?”

The room goes quiet. Harry’s father stills, cutlery still in hand, knife poised over his dinner. Ian’s eyes dart back and forth between Harry and Harry’s mother, who has eyes only for him. He feels rather like a butterfly, pinned beneath a glass case.

“Yes.”

His mother claps her hands in excitement, “Oh, I thought so. No wonder you were so eager to see the greenhouse!  Tell me, is it everything you hoped it would be?”

Harry nods, unable to help smiling, although he’s careful not to look at Ian, “It’s better. Everything is so vibrant. I can’t imagine ever going back.”

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Harry’s father says loudly. “Who is it? Do we at least get a name?”

Harry clenches his jaw, only just managing to keep his eyes from flicking to Ian. “We met at school,” he says. “Er...her name is Peggy.”

He doesn’t miss his father’s sigh (is that relief?) or the curious look that passes over his mother’s face. “Well,” she says, “there will be plenty of time to bother you about that later. Let’s finish dinner. Ian, why don’t you tell us all about what you’ve been up to. I hear from Isla that you’ve been taking some advanced educational courses?”

\---

When his mother pulls Ian aside after dinner, telling him she has a book or two on engineering that he might be interested in in the library, Harry only feels a little bit guilty for following them, hovering on the other side of the door.

His mother’s voice is clear and not unkind, “Did Harry tell you that he’d found his soulmate, Ian?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ian’s voice doesn’t even waver.

“Peggy, did he say? Lovely name.”

“He’s written about her in his letters. She seems nice.”

“Ian, you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So if I were to ask you a question, you would answer me truthfully? You wouldn’t lie or feed me some half-truth that you think I want to hear?”

“...I wouldn’t lie, ma’am.”

“You needn’t call me ma’am, Ian. Because here’s the thing; I know my son very well. And in the past three years he’s been absolutely miserable without you. Sometimes I think his only source of joy are those letters and phone calls between the two of you. Now, I’m not saying that a solid friendship is anything to scoff at. But if I said it was a bit of a surprise when Harry said his soulmate was a woman, that would be a bit of an understatement.”

There’s silence for a long moment, and Harry holds his breath. Then Ian asks, “What, exactly are you asking me, ma’am?”

“I told you, Ian, there’s no need to call me ma’am. Especially if my suspicion is correct.”

“Your suspicion?”

Harry’s knuckles are white from how hard his hands are clenched into fists. It’s as if all the air has been stolen from his lungs.

“Ian, are you Harry’s soulmate? Please tell me the truth.”

“I…” The pause from Ian seems to stretch on an eternity, before, in a quiet voice, Ian admits, “yes.”

“Lovely.”

Harry coughs, suddenly able to breath again, and his mother opens the library door, raising an eyebrow at him, “Gentlemen don’t eavesdrop, Harry Hart. And they don’t tell their mother lies.”

He hangs his head, but Ian steps in, “Don’t be upset at Harry. It was my idea.”

She turns to look at him, “Why ever would you suggest such a thing?”

Ian shifts, clearly uncomfortable at being the center of attention. “I didn’t think I was the sort of person that you’d want for Harry’s soulmate. We can’t have kids, so you won’t have a proper heir. I’m not...I’m not the right-”

“Ian, I’d appreciate it if you did not complete that thought,” Harry’s mother says, and Harry gapes, because ‘a lady/gentleman does not interrupt’ is another one of his mother’s rules. She puts a hand on Ian’s shoulder, “You make my son happy. That’s all that matters to me.”

Ian looks over at Harry, who smiles at him. “So you’re not upset?”

“I’m not upset,” she uses the hand on him to pull Ian into a soft hug. Ian stiffens in her grip, but Harry can see the moment Ian allows himself to relax and hug her back, and it sets something warm bubbling in his chest. She lets Ian go, “Welcome to the family, Ian Campbell. We’re very pleased to have you.”

\---

Harry hardly lets Ian out of his sight for the rest of the holidays. Alright, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration; Ian doesn’t spend the night _every_ night, and it’s not like Harry is being overly clingy...he thinks. He just loves looking at his soulmate, loves watching him pouring over the books he’d borrowed from Harry’s mother, his (brown) glasses sliding down his nose, his (black) fringe of hair falling over his eyes.

They’d been curled up together at one point, Ian reading his engineering book and Harry studying one of his old books on butterflies, the one with the colour notes in the margins, and he’d glanced over at Ian, who’d looked up, and Harry’s breath had caught all over again, because in the light Ian’s eyes weren’t grey but a shining, vivid green. At Harry’s staring, Ian had shifted uncomfortably, “What?”

“You’re beautiful,” was all Harry had managed to say.

Ian had rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot.” But he’d smiled.

His soulmate’s eyes change colour. How the hell did Harry get so lucky?

His father seems to think the opposite; Harry heard him and his mother shouting just before the Christmas party.

“My son is a fucking queer, and I’m supposed to be happy about that?”

“Your son just found out that his best friend is his soulmate. Yes, you should be happy.”

“I don’t think that boy should be hanging around all the time. This is not his house!”

“He is practically our son-in-law, and he would be eventually, if not for those stupid laws. This is his home as much as Harry’s, and he will always be welcome under my roof.”

“Your roof?”

“You heard me.”

If Harry had clung to Ian a little more than usual at the Christmas party that night, he thinks he’s justified.

It’s torture, the thought of leaving him again at the end of break, but as Harry waits in dread for the car to pull up, Ian reminds him, “We’re soulmates. You won’t be able to get rid of me now.”

“Not that I’d ever want to,” Harry replies.

Behind them, he knows his father is frowning, but he doesn’t care. He gives Ian a tight hug, although he doesn’t dare kiss him. Not yet.

His mother comes down the steps, and gives Harry a hug, “We’ll miss you.”

He hugs her back, “I’ll miss you too. Although I’m not sure Father feels the same.”

“He’ll come around.” She lets go of Harry and wraps her arm around Ian in a half-hug, “And you, young man, better be spending a bit more time over here. I’d like to get to know my son’s soulmate a bit better in person.”

“Yes, mum,” Ian answers, like it’s a reflex. His eyes widen, and he draws in on himself, “I mean-”

She laughs, “You’d better get used to calling me that, dear. Although perhaps not around Harry’s father.”

Ian manages a small smile, but Harry’s fades as the car pull up. His mother backs away, leaving it just the two of them again. “You’ll still write me, won’t you?” Harry asks.

“No,” Ian says sarcastically, “finding out you’re my soulmate has left me with no desire to contact you again. Of _course_ I’ll write to you. Often as I can.”

“And we’ll see each other soon?”

“Sooner than three years, at least,” Ian says. “And that’s a promise.”

Harry gives him one last hug. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

This time, when Harry gets into the car, he watches behind him for as long as possible, until the brown of his house smears into a faded blur against the sky and Ian is just a dot on the driveway.


	5. This Is You And Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being separated is harder, knowing they're meant to be together.

_9 January 1977_

_Hello Harry,_

_You’ve only just left yesterday, but I already felt the need to write you. Usually, I’d say that’s ridiculous, but considering we’re soulmates…well, I figured you’d forgive me this bit of me being a hopeless romantic._

_Your mum had Aunt Isla and I stay over for dinner tonight--we’ve just gotten home about five minutes ago--and it was actually quite nice. Your father…has been trying. He’s at least not glaring at me anymore which is a nice change._

_Minnie just brought over the jumper you’ve left me. I think she’s wondering where you are, she’s become so besotted with you. And, well, I can’t say I’m not feeling the same. Look at this, I’ve spent three weeks with you, and I’m already spouting all of these sappy lines._

_I hope you’re resettling back at Eton well. What are the colours of all the flowers in the garden? And your room? It’s like you’re going to a whole different school, I imagine, seeing it for almost the first time. How are Peggy and Deloris? Please tell them I say hi and hope they’re doing well._

_I also hope you enjoy the picture I’ve included of you, Minnie, and myself. Your mother gave it to me and I thought that you’d like to have it over there to add to your wall._

_My rugby mates and I are meeting back up this weekend, so I can’t wait to finally see what colour stripes they’ve been wearing. Neil and Jamal (the impossible couple they are) kept telling the rest of us who couldn’t see colour yet different ones every week._

_I only saw you yesterday, but I miss you and your peacocking strut. The spring can’t come soon enough._

_And because your ridiculous arse insisted I add this at the end of all my letters, my eyes are green right now._

_Say hello to the butterflies for me,_

_Ian_

_PS. You didn’t think I’d end this letter without saying I love you, did you?_

 

_17 January 1977_

_Dear Ian,_

_I rather like you as a hopeless romantic, so there’s absolutely no forgiveness needed. I’m usually the one for theatrics between us, so I think this will be a nice change. Of course don’t think it means I won’t do my very best to remind you of how much I love you. There’s room for two romantics in this relationship, after all._

_I’m glad Father seems to be warming up to you. He’ll come around, I’m sure of it. He really does love me, and by default that means he has to learn to love you. And Mother obviously adores you, so she’ll back you up. I’m glad she’s trying to make both you and your aunt part of the family. I’d like to be part of yours as well (obviously not your parents, but your aunt is family and I do hope she can learn to like me as more than just the spoiled rich kid she helped to raise)._

_Oh, give Minnie lots of cuddles from me, poor girl. I miss her too, almost as much as I miss you. We managed three years apart, and now even three days feels too long. I feel terribly clingy even saying it, but it’s the truth. Hearing your voice over the phone helps, and knowing that I’ll see you over the breaks as well - I don’t care what I have to do to make it possible, it’s happening - but it still feels as if I left a piece of my heart back home with you. Of course, I know you’ll take good care of it._

_Who’s spouting sappy lines now?_

_Eton is...utterly breathtaking in colour. I didn’t know violet came in so many shades! Some of the flowers are white, of course, but so many are violet and red and pink and blue and they’re all so beautiful. The butterflies even more so. I was right; my club was very jealous to find out that I could see them in colour. Which reminds me, did you find out about your rugby mates’ stripes?_

_I did put the picture up, right by my head so I can look at it every night before I fall asleep. I was looking at the photographs on my wall, and you know your eyes are a different colour in nearly every photo I have of you? Brown and grey and green and even dark blue in one. Have I mentioned recently that I adore you having hazel eyes? Yes? Oh well, I’ll say it again; I love it, and I love you._

_Peggy and Deloris are lovely and not even remotely surprised that my soulmate is a boy. I’ve told them about you before, so when I told them you were my soulmate they thought I was insane for ever doubting that you could be. Apparently I get a little enthusiastic when talking about you...Anyway, they said they’d like to meet you at some point. I think that could be a lovely trip, and not just as an excuse to see each other. I’d be interested in meeting some of your friends as well. Maybe we can plan something over spring break?_

_I hope the end of your rugby season goes well. Even from afar, know I’m cheering you on. I know you’re very busy, so I won’t beg for another call or a letter, but I’ll eagerly await hearing from you again._

_Forever yours,_

_Harry_

_PS: I know I said it half a dozen times in the letter anyway, but I love you too._

 

_25 January 1977_

_Hello Harry,_

_Well, don’t expect too much of it, you soft sap. You provide enough hopeless romance between the two of us._

_Your mother has been incredible, though you probably already know that. She’s insisted that I come over to the house after school at least twice a week to get to know her (and your father, but…I’m not optimistic about getting to know him, if I’m being honest). Friday is non-negotiable, and I’m not complaining at all. Since Aunt Isla is already there, your mum has your driver, Daniel, come and pick me up. Rupert and Timothy haven’t even looked my way since he stared them down the first day he came to get me. It’s so nice for mine and Aunt Isla’s little family to grow, and I know she thinks the same about all of you._

_I’m starting to believe Minnie loves you more than she loves me. She sticks particularly close to my side when I’m wearing your violet jumper. Three years was a long time, but now we only need to wait one month to see each other again. With you in the middle of A-levels and myself taking on more tutoring sessions, we’ll be back together before you know it._

_Your campus sounds incredible, Harry. Maybe I can convince Aunt Isla to let me come visit you one weekend. I’d love to meet Peggy and Deloris, they sound delightful. My rugby mates probably aren’t as lovely as them, but fun all the same. They said they weren’t surprised, either, when I told them about you. Apparently, I’ve spoken about you quite a lot as well. There were two who were less than polite about it. They said they were able to tolerate two poufs on the team, but another was too much. The rest of the lads quickly dismissed him and kicked them off, and, well, good fucking riddance._

_Oh, and everyone’s shirts! So many colours, love, so many. Blue and yellow, white and green, red and violet…So I suppose Jamal and Neil weren’t being completely dishonest. They also said they wanted to meet you and see how your cricket skills could prepare you for the rugby field._

_… I still can’t believe we’re soulmates, Harry. Remember when you asked me what I’d like to see when I saw colour for the first time, and I told you the telly? Well, I lied. I wanted to see you._

_Tha gaol agam ort._

_Missing you always,_

_Ian_

_PS. My eyes are grey right now._

 

\---

 

_22 October 1977_

_Dear Ian,_

_I’m a complete and utter idiot. I left the photo we took this summer on my nightstand at home. You know, the one I really like with the Eiffel Tower in the background (France is gorgeous anyway, but it’s even better with you there. I’m glad we could find time this summer to go, given how busy you were)? Do you think you could send it to me in you next letter?_

_Sorry, I know I normally write right at the start of term, but diving in this year was...more time consuming than expected. I had to drop the butterfly club, and I’m even debating giving up cricket. Not all of us can make schooling look as easy as you, and I’m absolutely drowning what with A Levels this year. I can only imagine how much worse it is for you._

_Got into an altercation the other day. You always did say I leap to violence a bit too quickly, but I swear, I tried to ignore them, I really did. Somehow, one of the boys a year above me found out about Peggy and Deloris, and he was saying some dreadful things about what he wanted to do to them for it. I stuck up for them, naturally, and when I did he called me a few nasty names, accused me of being “like them” (the way he put it was a great deal ruder, but I’d rather not write the words he used). I told him so what if I was. I’m not ashamed of you, darling, and I’m not ashamed of us. He made a crude comment that I shall_ _not_ _repeat. I may have thrown the first blow, but he really was asking for it. I know it’s hideous, but blood is actually a rather pretty shade of red. And now I feel slightly sick for even thinking such a thing. Christ, something must be wrong with me. I think I’m still a bit more upset about it than I let on._

_Enough about that. How are you getting on? Are you going to do rugby again next season? I know you were still on the fence when I left. I think you should; with everything going on, you should have something for yourself._

_Unless the universe conspires against us, I imagine I’ll see you again at Christmas? I know Mother will be dreadfully disappointed if you have to miss it, almost as much as I will._

_Sending you all my love and wishing you were here with me,_

_Harry_

 

_3 November 1977_

_Hello Harry,_

_Photo is attached as promised. We should go back to Paris again one day, don’t you think? Maybe even with just us. Once I’m older, of course, Aunt Isla (or your mother for that matter) would never let us go without a chaperone before I turn 18._

_No need to say sorry. I’ve been far too busy myself. I’ve had to take on another job on top of my tutoring. And no, Harry, no matter how much you or your mum offer, I will not have your family paying for my education. I love you and your mother dearly, but that’s just not something I can accept._

_Oh, Harry…Are you okay? Please tell me you are. I’m not happy about this, but…well, I guess I can’t really blame you. You know I’ll always support you, I just can’t stand the idea of not being there for you when you’re hurt. What about Peggy and Deloris? I hope they’re not too shaken up by this ordeal. Please, please don’t get hurt anymore. At least not when I’m not there to help or take care of you afterwards. That’s all I ask._

_I want nothing more than to keep on with rugby, but I’m afraid I won’t have the time anymore, not with tutoring on top of working in the electronics store down the street from my school. I’m actually learning quite a lot there. The owner enjoys tinkering, too, and he lets me take apart and put contraptions back together when we’re not busy. The telephone-television invention might make an appearance one day (only joking, of course…for the most part)._

_Your father and I had an…interesting conversation while I was over for dinner last Friday. He really is trying to get to know me now since you’ve left again for school. I was doing my schoolwork (thank god my instructors this year have actually given me more advanced work rather than more of the same) while I was waiting for dinner to get ready, and he came and sat down next to me, and just started talking. About if I’d heard from you, how I’m adjusting to the school year, my plans for the future. He even asked if I needed any help for getting into uni which nearly had me looking at him as if he were insane before I caught myself. I told him no, of course, but thank you. Perhaps your father will come around to us after all._

_I will do everything in my power see you this Christmas, love. We spent three years without each other for the holiday, and I don’t plan on missing any more with you._

_I can’t wait to hear your voice again,_

_Ian_

 

_11 November 1977_

_Dear Ian,_

_I won’t say I’m happy about it, but I suppose I understand why you won’t accept my help for paying with schooling. It doesn’t really make sense to me; my family has more money than we really know what to do with, and you’re part of that family now. I want you to have every opportunity to excel. But I won’t argue with you on this anymore...at least for now. Just know that you don’t have to prove anything, not to me, not to my family, not to anyone. Although, that’s a bit self-centered of me, isn’t it? Knowing you, you’re trying to prove something to yourself. Well, I’m not going to stand in the way of it, and I will do my best to support you in any way I can._

_I’m fine. What happened last month opened my eyes to a part of the world I hadn’t fully considered before, that’s all. I knew homophobia was real, of course, but seeing it like that...I was caught off guard. Peggy and Deloris are alright; honestly, they probably didn’t need me to get involved. Deloris apparently takes self-defense classes. Peggy’s been a bit paranoid since it happened. Deloris and I always make sure at least one of us is with her when she needs to go places. It’s not especially convenient, but I’d rather her feel safe. No one has tried anything since we spoke last, but we’ll see. Is this what school used to be like for you, being tormented by Rupert and Timothy? You’re not still having those issues, are you? I know those two have backed off, but...I’m just worried, is all._

_I’m sorry to hear about rugby. I know you loved it. Still, you love your machines too, so if you have to work a second job an electronic shop isn’t the worst place to be. Christ, it was, what, five or so years ago you first mentioned the television-telephone combination? I still think that if anyone can build it it’s you. You’re very talented, darling. I’m not sure I say it often enough. You deserve to hear it every day._

_Has my father really been making such an effort? That’s...well, it’s more than I expected to be honest. I will not suggest you take him up on his offer, given that I just promised I would drop the matter, but I hope you at least will listen to him. For all his flaws, he is a bright man, and I imagine you two will get on rather well once he drags himself out of the past. Of course, I know you’ll always prefer my mother, and I really can’t say I blame you if you do._

_Christmas can’t come soon enough. I feel like I hardly have a moment to myself, and it must be far worse for you. We’ll always have Paris (and don’t you dare make fun of me for the Casablanca reference, you know you cried too), and I do very much hope we can go back someday when we’re both older._

_Missing your beautiful eyes,_

_Harry_

 

_\---_

 

_25 April 1980_

_Hello Harry,_

_Why is it always hardest the week after you leave? I’m sitting here in my room, wrapped in your violet jumper, Minnie lying on the floor next to me (because of course she is, I’m wearing your jumper), and I can’t find it in myself to do anything today. I haven’t even touched my A-level coursework._

_I know you were more than excited to get back to uni, though. Aunt Isla keeps bragging to her knitting group that her other nephew is a Cambridge boy. I only hope that I’ll be able to join you there. How are your classes? Is that one professor still being a prick about you wanting to study butterflies? How’s Deloris? It’s wonderful that she’s studying there, as well. I hope she and Peggy are faring well with their own long distance experience._

_It’s been…stressful since you’ve left. While I was studying over at your parents’ house before dinner tonight, I was walking to the library to see if there was a book I could use as a reference, but I accidentally overheard your parents arguing. I know that your mother has always told us that a gentleman never eavesdrops, but I couldn’t help it, Harry, I really couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot. They were arguing…I don’t even know why I’m so surprised. They were fighting about marriage. About us. Your mother was asking if there were any way possible for us to marry one day, and that just made your father absolutely furious. He said it sullies the name of the church and that no queer, soulmate or not, could ever be allowed such a sacred sacrament. Your father has made more than enough of an effort since that day in the greenhouse so long ago, but at the end of the day, I guess he’s still set in his ways. They have no idea I heard them, though. Well, I’m sure your mother knows, with her being so clever and all-knowing._

_Another thing that happened the other day was running into Cameron. Do you remember him? The friend I made who was also from Scotland right after you left for Eton? He came into the shop while I was working. He was surprised to see me there, and obviously I was surprised to see him as well. It was awkward at first, but then he told me something, the reason he stopped being friends with me after he met his soulmate. It’s because I’m his soulmate, Harry. He was seeing colour, and I was seeing grey and going on and on about you. I know I shouldn’t feel so guilty and awful, and he told me not to and that he’s well gotten over it and has found peace, but…God, Harry. How else am I supposed to feel? He asked if I could see colour yet, and told him yes. He looked almost resigned, wished me well, and left. So that’s been sitting with me for the last few days._

_This summer can’t come fast enough, Harry. With all that’s going on over here, the only thing I want is to be with you again. Maybe I can ask Aunt Isla if I can come visit you before your Easter term is over._

_Also, sorry again for forgetting about writing my eye colour the last few letters before you came back from this past break. It’s all just been so hectic. But right now, they’re a light brown. Almost like yours. Not quite honey, but I don’t think anyone else’s eyes could ever have the same warmth and sense of home as yours._

_Ridiculously and deeply in love with you,_

_Ian_

 

_4 May 1980_

_Dear Ian,_

_I hope you’re not still feeling down, darling. Summer is right around the corner, and I’ll be home before you know it. You’re going to wear out that jumper if you keep this up, you know. Not that I mind, of course. It looks better on you anyway. At this point you should just keep it. It’s more your jumper than mine anyway._

_I’m loving Cambridge, but I love being with you more, you know that. I’d love it if you ended up at Cambridge with me, but honestly, so long as you’re not too far away, I’ll be happy wherever you wind up going to school. You’re talented enough that I’m sure you could get accepted anywhere you wish. Are you thinking of applying anywhere else? And yes, Professor Jameson is as much a prick as ever about my pursual of lepidoptery. Not all of us studying zoology are interested in apex predators or whatever he thinks is so much better than butterflies. Honestly, I hardly listen to the man anymore. Deloris is wonderful, she’s besting all the boys in her computer science courses, and let me tell you, they are not happy about it. I shudder at that woman’s power sometimes. In a good way, naturally. She and Peggy are making the long-distance thing work about as well as we are, which is to say admirably well, despite how painful the separation is. And you don’t know how much it means to me that your aunt refers to me as her nephew. One of these days I’ll get an opportunity to refer to her as “Aunt Isla,” won’t I? I imagine she’d be pleased. And for all she brags about me, you have a far more impressive skill set. I’m sure she’s at least equally, if not more proud of you. I know I am._

_The news about my parents...I’m sorry you had to hear that. I knew they were a bit tense the last time I spoke with them, but I never imagined it could be over us. I...I really thought my father might have moved past that. He certainly likes you, maybe even loves you. At least, I thought he did. Good lord, what an awful thing to say. Are you alright? That must have been so upsetting for you. You know I love you, ring or no, right?_

_Cameron...I haven’t thought of Cameron in ages. Of course I remember him. I’m surprised you saw him again, although I did always wonder what happened to him. I wish I could say that you being his soulmate was a shock to me, but if I’m being completely honest, I suspected as much from your letters. It was why I suggested you trying to remain his friend. I thought...well, I thought that would be me someday as well. That you’d be my soulmate, but I wouldn’t be yours. As painful as it would have been, I would have stayed with you as your friend even if I hadn’t been lucky enough for you to love me back. I’m glad Cameron has found a measure of peace over this. You shouldn’t feel guilty, darling. You can’t control the universe, and even if you could…_

_If you could visit me early, you know I will always welcome you with open arms, but don’t stress yourself too much. You’re still working two jobs, aren’t you? I don’t want you to wear yourself too thin. You’ll start to look like my jumper! (Of course, I’ll love you all the same.) Don’t worry about forgetting the eye colour. I’ll never say no to it, but it was a bit silly to ask you. Still, I love that you indulge me in my silliness. I really don’t deserve you. I’ll see you this summer at the latest, but hopefully earlier._

_Yours until death do us part, wedding or no,_

_Harry_

_PS: yes, I know it’s far too early to be thinking of weddings. But someday, we’ll see_

 

_13 May 1980_

_Hello Harry,_

_I’m feeling as better as I can without you here. God, there I go, being all sappy again. Look at how you’ve influenced me._

_Cambridge has always been my ideal school even before you decided on going there, but I have been looking at Oxford. If I end up getting into Cambridge, though, that means Deloris and I will be in the same course, which I think would be incredibly fun. She’s so clever. Maybe she can write to Peggy and both she and I could visit on the same weekend and all four of us could have some good fun. I could even give that Professor Jameson of yours a piece of my mind with the way he’s being a right prat to his brilliant student. As for Aunt Isla, I’m sure you’ve been given permission to call her aunt the moment we saw colour for the first time._

_I love you ring or no as well, Harry. It was…disheartening to say the least, but with the way laws are, I don’t see how we could ever go down that path even if we wanted to. It’s always nice to know that your mother (and Aunt Isla) always give us their support, though._

_You knew that I was Cameron’s soulmate? God, you never even met him, how could I not have seen it? Oh, love, please don’t mistake my last letter as a wish to change our fates. There is no one else in the world I want for me than you. Never doubt that. I saw you, and just you._

_I am working the same two jobs still, tutoring and the shop. I’m trying my best not to work too hard, but I never have been able to gauge when too much is too much. And is it really working too hard if I’m spending half my time in the shop dismantling equipment and seeing if I can turn them into something new? Your request isn’t silly at all to me. If anything, it’s, well it’s quite flattering if I’m being honest, you wanting to know what my eyes look like as I write these words. Right now, they’re a light green._

_I also recently had to pay for a new pair of glasses. I fell asleep on my desk last week and accidentally bent the frames horribly. My new ones should be ready to pick up soon, though. They’re the same as the old ones, just black instead of brown._

_Let’s not talk about deserving, Harry. It’s not about that, after all. All that matters is striving to be the best that we can be for each other, and I believe that we’re both doing pretty well at that._

_Between having to pay for Minnie’s vet bills, groceries, and my glasses on top of everything, money’s been tight here, but we’re getting by just fine. Dinner with your parents have also been a bit stilted as of late, but that’s hardly surprising considering. Your mother, as always, is as lovely as ever towards me, though. It’s been tiring, stressful, and more trying than ever over here, but our letters and phone conversations have been my moments of peace and solace. I’m going to try my absolute hardest to come visit you soon, Harry._

_Ever and always yours,_

_Ian_

_PS. Someday sounds just right._

 

\---

 

_1 October 1981_

_Dear Ian,_

_I think I’ve started this letter a thousand times. It never sounds quite right. I...please tell me you’re not still angry with me. I am literally begging, on my knees. Please forgive me. For the summer to go so well, and then to end it on that note...I hate it when we fight, and I don’t think it’s ever been as bad as that. I didn’t mean to upset you, you have to know that. That you’d accuse me of trying to buy your affection...Ian, I want to think you didn’t mean it, that you just said it because you were angry, but I can’t stop thinking about it._

_I swear to you, on whatever you wish, that I will_ _never_ _,_ _ever_ _bring it up ever again if you can just forgive me for this. Whatever university you want to go to, however long it takes for you to get the money (on your own time and merit, I promise, no interference from me), I’m willing to wait. I can finish my degree, maybe get a job or an internship or something, and I’ll wait for you for as long as you need. You’re my rainbow, darling, my soulmate, and more than that you’re my best friend. You have to know I’d do anything for you._

_...I don’t know what else to say. Classes are...fine. Normal. I’m not a genius, not like you, but I’m doing fine. Deloris and Peggy are talking about getting married. Not legally, just a ceremony. They’ve managed to find a church that will do it. We’re invited, they said. If...you know. If you still want to see me._

_I miss your voice, darling. I miss your beautiful eyes and your smile and fuck I’ve really messed up this time. I...I don’t know if you still want to see me for Christmas, but I desperately want to see you. I promise, again, that I won’t even mention money._

_You’re brilliant, Ian. Never forget that. I know I never will._

_Yours, whether you want me or not,_

_Harry_

 

_8 October 1981_

_Hello Harry,_

_I’m driving up to Cambridge next weekend on the 18th. There’s a lot we have to discuss._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I’ll see you soon._

_Unquestionably, completely, and freely yours,_

_Ian_

_PS: My eyes are almost honey brown._

 


	6. There's Nothing You Could Ever Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, life throws a wrench in your plans.

It’s a familiar drive for Ian, going from his and Aunt Isla’s small flat to Cambridge. He’s frequently found time to visit Harry (and, by extension, Deloris) since he started uni there two years prior, and walking through its gorgeous campus only made Ian’s determination to attend university there that much stronger.

Two vigorous years of A-levels got him the acceptance letter he’d been dreaming of, but the cold truth  and harsh reality set in once it became apparent there was no way he could possibly afford tuition, textbooks, and all other costs despite having worked two jobs for nearly four years. The income that his Aunt Isla brought in also dictated that he was supposedly financially stable enough to not receive any scholarships which enraged Ian to no end.

Not one to be deterred, though, Ian gave himself one year. One more year to save up enough money to finally be able to afford Cambridge, but that year is now up, and also the catalyst for fight he and Harry had before Harry left for his second to last year at university.

He sighs as he remembers the harsh words both of them threw at each other; Harry accusing Ian of constantly loving to play the martyr, and Ian accusing Harry of trying to buy out his love. They had said goodbye on stiff terms, and with Harry having been gone for three weeks now, it’s given Ian a lot of time to think. Too much time, if his Aunt Isla and Harry’s mother had anything to say about it. Even Harry’s father had expressed his hesitance at Ian’s decision, saying there was a very likely possibility Harry would not approve. Maybe the old man had finally come around after all.

He makes a right turn and finally ends up on the street Harry and Deloris reside on, having acquired a flat for themselves the year before. He parks the car on the street directly in front, turning off the ignition, and sighing. Closing his eyes, Ian tries to mentally prepare what he’s going to say. It’s no use, though, having used the entire drive there to try and come up with what to say to Harry. He takes off his glasses and swipes his hand down his face. He really hopes his last letter was enough to ease Harry’s doubts. He didn’t want to explain everything within a simple letter, he couldn’t even if he wanted to.

After sitting in his car for a few more minutes, Ian grabs his small duffle sitting in the passenger seat, gets out, locks it, walks over to the building, and presses the the button next to Harry and Deloris’s names.

“Hello?” a voice says after a moment.

“Hi, Deloris, it’s Ian.”

Moments later, Ian looks up to see a window opening, and Deloris poking her head out. “Heads up,” she says as she drops down the key.

Ian catches it easily and smiles at her. “Thanks.”

“See you soon.” She disappears back into the flat and closes the window. Ian sighs. Now or never, he thinks.

He lets himself in and walks up the three flights of stairs to get to their flat, and sees that the door has been left open. Walking in, he immediately sees Deloris who looks as though she’s getting ready to leave.

Handing her back her key, Ian looks at her questioningly.

“I figured you two needed to talk,” she says quietly as she gives him a hug and peck on the cheek. “He’s in his room. I’ll be back later tonight.”

She leaves, softly closing the door, and Ian is left standing in the middle of their modest two bedroom flat. He looks towards Harry’s room, his door closed shut. Walking over, he lightly knocks.

“Harry? It’s me. Um, Ian.” There’s no response. “Is it alright if I come in?”

A moment later, the door swings open, but Ian doesn’t even see Harry’s face, he moves away and sits on his bed so quickly. Ian enters and closes the door, and his heart hurts. Harry isn’t even looking at him, instead staring at the framed picture of them in Paris a few years ago.

He says nothing as he sits down next to him, laying his bag on the floor at his feet.

“I’ve missed you,” Ian says quietly, breaking the silence. Harry still isn’t looking at him. “I’m sorry for what I said before you left. Of course I don’t think you’re trying to…to buy me. I’ve never thought that. I don’t know why I said it.”

When Harry still says nothing, Ian feels nothing but dread building up inside him, settling in his throat as he tries to swallow it down. “Harry, please,” he says almost desperately.

Silence.

“I’ve enlisted in the army.”

Finally, Harry’s head whips around to face Ian, his eyes wide and confused. “You _what_?”

“I’ve enlisted in the army,” Ian repeats, remaining as steady as ever.

Harry’s eyes keep moving, almost as though he’s scanning Ian’s face, searching for an explanation. “And why the hell would you do that?”

“We both know why, Harry,” Ian says quietly. “My year is up. I’m nineteen and I’m not getting any younger. If I still want to study here, this is the only option.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but closes it immediately and looks down. Ian knows exactly what he stopped himself from saying. He looks back up at him, and Ian almost crumbles. Harry looks as though he’s had his heart broken.

“We’re in the middle of a war, Ian.”

At this, Ian can’t help but scoff. “I’d hardly call it a war. Political tension, perhaps, but not a war. And we’re only barely involved, it’s mainly America and Russia.”

“And if it escalates to war, who do you think the Americans will be asking to become more involved?”

Ian looks at Harry carefully. “Are you asking me to not go?”

Harry swallows and bites his lip. “No,” he says. “I’ll always support you. You know that.”

“But?” Ian prompts, seeing Harry clearly has reservations.

“But I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Ian sighs and pulls Harry into him, cradling his head as Harry rests it on his shoulder and holds him just as tight.

“I’ll be fine, Harry.”

“You can’t possibly promise that.”

They sit there, holding each other, allowing silence to blanket over them, which is just fine with Ian. He couldn’t find a thing to say in response to Harry anyway, knowing he’s right. With the way the world and universe worked, sometimes, promises like that can’t be made.

“When do you leave?” Harry asks after a while.

“Basic training begins the day after Remembrance Day.”

Harry lifts his head from Ian’s shoulder and looks at him, eyes sad and hurt. “That’s less than a month from now.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to come here and tell you.”

“And what did Aunt Isla say about this?”

“She and your mum were less than pleased,” Ian answers, “but aren’t stopping me. Your father was actually worried about how you’d be taking this.”

Harry’s brows furrow. “Was he really?”

Ian nods. “Said that you probably wouldn’t approve if it meant more time away from each other.”

“As…shocking as that is,” Harry replies, “he’s not wrong. I don’t approve. We’ve already spent seven years away from each other, four of those as soulmates. I don’t want to be separated from you any longer.”

Ian opens his mouth to reply, but Harry cuts him off. “But I’m not going to stop you because I know this is what you want. So instead, I’m going to lock that door, lay down on this bed with you, and hold you for as long as possible.”

Ian smiles gently at that, and pulls Harry in for a gentle kiss. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“I love you,” Harry says with a quiet determination. “No matter what, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Harry. Always.”

 

\---

 

Ian sees a familiar mop of brown curls flopping about. Too familiar. Far, far too familiar. Anger begins bubbling inside him as he grabs Harry by the elbow and drags him to a secluded area behind one of the buildings.

“Harry, what the fuck are you doing here?” he hisses.

Without batting an eye, Harry answers him. “Like I said. We’ve spent seven years apart already, and I shan’t have us spend any more from each other.”

Ian’s frustration ebbs away and is then replaced with confusion and guilt. “But you want to be a lepidopterist. Since the day we first met, that’s all you’ve wanted, and you were only a year and a half away. Why would you go and throw all that away?”

“Because, darling,” Harry says, his eyes softening, “my dreams changed the moment the world stopped being black and white.”

Ian has nothing to say to that, and looks around to make sure the coast is clear before pulling Harry into his arms and embracing him as hard as possible.

 

\---

 

“Ian, are you sure this is legal?”

“They let me have access to this computer, so I don’t see why not.”

“Yes, to the computer, but not those exact files.”

“If they don’t want me to see them, they shouldn’t have made them accessible.”

“You hacked into them.”

“Like I said, accessible.”

Harry sighs beside him, but Ian does nothing to try to hide his smirk. It’s been a little over a year since Harry followed him into the army, and both of them have actually been thriving being part of Her Majesty’s service. Ian along the way had somehow found himself in the good graces of people within the computer information and technology, who in turn allowed him slim access to the technology available. It probably didn’t hurt that Ian regularly suggested upgrades that the rest of them could never dream of.

“What even is Kingsman, anyway?” Harry asks.

Ian shrugs. “I have no idea. Every file on them is redacted and only available to the chief of MI6.”

“And how the bloody hell did you gain access to the files for MI6?”

“The same way I gained access to Her Majesty’s Royal Army’s files. Come on, Harry, keep up.”

Harry huffed in annoyance. “If we end up in prison or exiled to Russia because of this, I swear to--”

“Oh, _hello_.”

A pixelated circle appears on the screen in front of Ian with what looks to be a sideways letter ‘K’ in the middle.

“And what do we have here?” he says delighted.

And then, the screen goes blank and the system shuts down. Ian is confused beyond belief because neither him nor Harry had gone to unplug the entire system. Before he can ask what went wrong, the door behind them opens. Turning in his seat, Ian sees two men in clearly well-tailored double-breasted suits. Bespoke, was that the word?

“Hello, gentlemen,” the one in a heather grey greets. “We’re so very sorry to have to do this, but it seems you two have been poking about in places you don’t belong.”

The man in navy blue rolls his eyes. “Lancelot, now is not the time for banter.”

“Quite right, Gawain, my apologies.” The other man, Lancelot, raises his watch and points it at them, and Ian has a gut feeling that what he’s wearing on his wrist is not a normal watch. “At the same time, then?”

Gawain lifts his arm as well and positions his watch in the same manner. “Yes, that seems appropriate.”

As the two of them continue their back and forth, Ian feels Harry nudge him and briefly glances at him, seeing the subtle twitch in his fingers. Maneuver four. He blinks twice in agreement and mentally counts down in his head.

He reaches one and they spring into action, separating on the outside of the two suit clad men. Harry goes for Lancelot’s side while Ian goes for Gawain, using their full body weights to knock the two of them into each other. Lancelot and Gawain collide and stumble to the floor. Harry and Ian smile at each other. They hadn’t been able to practice this particular move they’d come up with yet, and it seems as though it were a succ--

Suddenly, Ian feels woozy. He tries to blink back the blurriness beginning to cloud his eyes and vaguely sees Harry trying to do the same. He attempts to take a step near him to make sure Harry is okay, but instead falls onto the ground.

The last thing he hears is Lancelot telling Gawain, “I think we’ve just found our Galahad candidates,” before everything goes black.


	7. I'm In It to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ian belong at Kingsman as much as they belong with each other.

Harry’s still shaking when he meets Ian on the steps, Mr. Pickle clutched tightly in his arms. The dog is squirming, trying to lick his face, clearly unaware of how undeserving Harry is of that affection. Ian looks nearly as bad off as Harry. He has his arms wrapped around Moira, his Irish Wolfhound, his face buried in her fur. Harry sits down next to him.

“I couldn’t do it,” Ian says thickly. “I tried, but I couldn’t…”

“You’re a better man than me.”

Ian looks up, frowning, “Did you...?”

Harry nods. His throat feels too tight to speak. He shudders again and squeezes Mr. Pickle, who whines and struggles in protest. Finally, he manages, “What sort of monster shoots their own dog?”

“Oh, Harry.” Ian throws his arm around Harry’s shoulders, a gesture that’s just innocent enough to look friendly. Harry accepts it, even though part of him wants to throw it off, tell Ian that he doesn’t deserve colour, much less such an amazing soulmate, because if he can raise and love a dog and then shoot it, then who knows what terrible things he’ll eventually do to the _people_ he loves. He’s always been quick to anger, quick to fight. He’d taken to the brutality of Kingsman’s more aggressive courses with alarming ease. These things wouldn’t come so easily to a person who was truly good.

As if guessing his train of thought, Ian says, “You’re not a bad person, Harry. And as Agent Galahad, you’re going to do amazing things.”

Harry nods, but he’s not sure he believes it. He looks over at Ian, “What about you? I always...I always assumed you’d get the spot. You’re smarter than me. You deserve it more.”

There’s the sound of a throat clearing behind them, and they jump apart, Ian withdrawing his arm from Harry’s shoulders quickly. They turn to see Merlin, who gives them a half-smile. “Congratulations, Galahad,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry manages.

Merlin turns to Ian, “As for you...the boy is right. You are clever. And quite frankly, in my opinion, you’d be wasted in the field.”

“Sir?” Ian looks confused. Harry feels the same.

Merlin glances back and forth between them. “I want you to come work for me,” he says. “You and Agent Galahad work well together. You’ve demonstrated incredible teamwork since the moment we found you. You can think on your feet, and you’re good with technology. I want you for the handling division.”

“You’re offering me a job,” Ian says.

“I am.”

Harry nudges him, and Ian looks over. Harry tries to convey with only his eyes that Ian should _absolutely_ take the job. It sounds like something he’d be amazing at, and more so than that, it would mean they could work together. Harry’s not sure he deserves the title of Galahad, but he knows for sure that Ian deserves the chance to show Kingsman just how good he really is.

The look Ian gives him tells Harry plainly ‘of course I’m going to take the job, you idiot.’ He turns to Merlin, “I’m in.”

Merlin smiles, a full one this time that looks a bit unsettling on his face. “Well then. Welcome to Kingsman, Ian. I look forward to working with you.”

\---

“Take a left, Galahad. You should be able to lose them through the market.”

Harry veers sharply to the left, following the command in his ear with practiced ease. “You know,” he pants, “I feel like this would have been easier if we hadn’t gone in quite so blind.”

“It would have been easier if _I_ hadn’t been going in blind,” Ian responds. “These maps aren’t the most reliable, and satellite imaging isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. If I could see what you were seeing, maybe…”

“Brilliant idea.” Harry ducks a bullet and flies around another corner. “Get on that.”

“I’ve got some schematics I’ve been playing with. Once Merlin lets me into R&D, I’ll see what I can do. Go right.”

\---

Harry shifts on Ian’s desk, swinging his legs and watching his soulmate work. Ian has that look of intense concentration on his face, the one where Harry could probably strip down naked, put on a feather boa, and do a tap dance routine and Ian wouldn’t notice. Harry would be lying if he said the blueprints spread out across Ian’s workspace made any sense to him, nor do the little pieces of metal and wire seem to resemble any logical shape, but it must make sense to Ian, because he’s been tinkering with it for the past half hour.

Ever since Ian got permission to venture into R&D, he’s taken to locking himself away for hours, when he’s not busy handling missions (mostly for Harry, because his efficiency rate skyrockets when they’re paired up and not just because he doesn’t much care for listening to the other handlers). On the one hand, it’s good that he’s being kept busy, actually encouraged to exercise that gorgeous brain of his, but on the other...Harry misses his soulmate.

He doesn’t really expect an answer when he asks, “Are you planning on coming home tonight?” They share a house, although Harry’s not sure if Kingsman is actually aware of that. As an agent, he’s provided with a flat, and while Merlin has records for all the addresses of the staff, if he’s noticed that Ian’s and Harry’s is the same, he hasn’t commented on it. It’s a lovely little flat, although with three dogs it does feel a bit cramped sometimes. Mr. Pickle has taken to sleeping on top of Minnie, and the older dog lets him with the same sort of tired, fond resignation that Ian displays when he lets Harry cling to him like an octopus when they share a bed.

Ian doesn’t look up from his work, but he does surprise Harry by murmuring absently, “Probably not. I want to get this finished.”

“What is it?”

“ _If_ I can sort out the logistics, they’ll be glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Audio embedded in the frame instead of just an earpiece, but I’m trying to work live video streaming into the lens.”

“Oh.” It’s an ingenious idea, Harry can’t deny that, and it’s one that Ian has been thinking about for years, if not in this specific context. So as much as Harry wants to drag him away from the desk and make him come home, he can’t. He won’t interrupt Ian’s work. Not if it’s so important to him. He slides off the desk, “Well, I’m heading home now. I’ll...see you tomorrow, I suppose?” It takes an effort to keep his voice upbeat.

Ian must catch the note of upset under his tone, because he looks up, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one finger and frowning at Harry. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Harry says. “Just tired.”

“No, you’re not.” Ian sets down the unfinished mechanism. “What’s wrong?”

Harry means to dodge the question, but what comes out instead is, “I feel like I hardly see you. We live in the same house, but if I’m not on missions then you’re here working and I hate it. I hate not seeing you.”

Ian blinks. Then he says, “You’re an idiot.” He stands, gathering up his materials while Harry watches in confusion.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s it look like? I’m taking work home with me.” Ian gives Harry a half-smile, “If you’d just said something, I would have done it to begin with. Idiot.”

\---

“Look to your left, no! Slowly, Galahad, you don’t want to arouse suspicion. There, your target’s at your nine o’clock. The woman in the red dress.”

Harry keeps his head turned partially in that direction, watching his target from the periphery of his vision. He takes another sip of champagne and mumbles, “Thank you, Vivian.”

Ian huffs. “You know, you don’t have to say it at every opportunity.”

“I’d have thought you’d be thrilled at the reminder. After all, it’s a promotion.”

Merlin had been incredibly impressed with Ian’s designs for the glasses (along with his improvements to the Rainmaker, the lighter grenades, and just about everything else Ian has done since he joined Kingsman), and Harry doesn’t blame him. They’re incredibly useful, allowing the handlers to see exactly what the agent sees in real time. Ian’s working on adding in new features; night vision, for one, and a holographic projection feature that Harry thinks might be a little _too_ sci-fi. Not that he’ll say it to Ian’s face, because if anyone can do it, it’s his soulmate.

At any rate, Merlin had been impressed enough that he decided to take Ian on as his apprentice, officially giving him the codename Vivian and promising that if Ian did well, eventually he’d take Merlin’s position as wizard, controlling Handling as well as R&D. Harry is not surprised, but he’s proud of Ian nonetheless.

“Focus on your mission, Galahad,” Ian reminds him.

“Right,” Harry says. He carefully takes a box of “cigarettes” out of his pocket and pulls one out, breaking off the tip. He never really enjoys drugging women - it leaves an unsettling feeling in his stomach and reminds him of all the times he’s had to watch Deloris and Peggy’s drinks - but at least this is only supposed to make her feel slightly ill, enough to get her away from the party so Harry can subtly remove her bracelet, which has a charm that serves as the key to a safe upstairs.

He palms the pill and puts on his most charming smile, striding over to his target. It takes absolutely no effort to drug her champagne without her noticing, and when he gets the bracelet and heads upstairs for the safe, Ian tells him, “Excellent work, Galahad.”

“I’m not out of this yet,” Harry tells him. He catches his reflection in a mirror in the hall, and pauses so Ian can see his grin through the glasses.

\---

“Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” Harry says.

Ian rolls his eyes, “We knew this was coming, Harry. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”

“No, but it’s still a big deal,” Harry argues. “Technically, you outrank me now.” He pauses and grins, “I’m sleeping with the boss. How unprofessional of me.”

“Technically, Arthur is still your boss.”

Harry shudders, “And you’ve ruined it. That’s an awful image I won’t be able to get out of my head.” Still, he wraps his arms around Ian’s neck and kisses him. “I’m very proud of you, _Merlin_.”

Ian smiles shyly, and then the moment is broken as Moira tries to get in on it, shouldering Harry and sending the pair of them toppling down. Harry bursts out laughing as the massive dog licks them, and Mr. Pickle jumps up and comes to investigate.

From his vantage point under Harry, Ian looks up at him, watching Harry with a fond smile on his face. Harry leans down and kisses him again, before Moira’s tongue swipes across their faces, and then he’s laughing again, and Ian joins in.

\---

Harry slams the door hard enough that the picture frames rattle on the wall, the butterflies in their glass cases looking as if they might burst into flight. He storms up the stairs and throws himself down on the bed, and then, only then, does he finally allow himself to cry.

He doesn’t look up at the knock on the doorframe. “Are you alright?” Ian asks softly.

“Do I fucking look alright?”

The bed dips, and Ian’s warm hand rubs Harry’s back soothingly. “Lee knew what he signed on for, Harry. He knew this was a possibility.”

“It’s my fault,” Harry says. “It’s my fault he’s dead, my fault that poor woman is suddenly seeing in black and white again after years of technicolor, my fault that boy is going to grow up without his father.” He chokes out another sob. “I wish it had been me. I wish I’d done the right thing and died for my mistake-”

“Don’t you dare say that, Harry Hart.” There are very few times that Harry has heard Ian’s voice this sharp, and it’s enough to give him pause, lifting his head to blink up at his partner through the tears. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me you’d rather be dead. Don’t you dare tell me you want my world to turn black and white, because that would destroy me, Harry. Losing you would kill me. Yes, you made a mistake. You have to live with that. But it is not your damn fault, any more than it’s mine for taking them into the field in the first place. Do you understand me?”

Ian’s eyes are shining green and piercing as a dagger, and all Harry can do is nod meekly, even if he doesn’t fully believe it. “I love you,” Ian says softly.

Harry pushes himself upright and hugs Ian, tucking his face in the crook of his soulmate’s neck. “I love you too,” he whispers. He pulls back slightly, not willing to break contact. “Do you know what the first thing that went through my head was? The first thing I thought when I was about to jump on that grenade, before Lee pushed me back?”

Ian shakes his head.

“I thought,” Harry can’t bring himself to say it louder than a whisper, “I thought ‘Dear lord, I love him. I can’t let him die because of me.’ My mistake could have killed you. And that’s a thought I couldn’t bear.”

Ian pulls him back into the hug, his grip tighter. “It didn’t happen,” he soothed. “It didn’t happen.”

Harry wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. He drinks in the green of Ian’s jumper, the brown patches on the shoulders. The blue walls of the bedroom and the bedspread. The photo on their nightstand; Paris, in full blooming colour. He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. Because he still has this, and if he closes his eyes for even a moment, it might disappear.

\---

“Did you hear the news?” Harry asks idly, a complete contrast to the churning in his stomach.

Ian is at the dining room table, three different laptops with details of James’s upcoming mission to Argentina spread out in front of him. He glances briefly over at Harry, who's standing in the doorway, trying not to look as nervous as he feels. “If you've been reading those tabloids again, it's your own bloody fault. Put up the cover if you like, but you know the articles are a load of shite.”

“What?” Then Harry remembers that, last he spoke to Ian, he'd retrieved the Sun from him (Ian always had his copy ready when he came back from a mission) and gone upstairs to put the cover in his office. He shakes his head, “Not that. The actual news.”

“I've been a little busy.”

Harry shuffles his feet, “Darling, can you put the laptops away for a minute?”

That gets Ian's attention, and he closes them with three dull snaps. Then he turns in his chair to look at Harry fully. “What's going on? Please tell me the world isn't ending.”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” Harry steps into the room fully and clears his throat, “You know I love you?”

Ian raises his eyebrows and says sarcastically, “Oh really? I hadn't guessed.”

“Oh shush,” Harry laughs. “It's true. I love you. Arguably, I've loved you since I was ten years old, possibly since I was thirteen, and definitely since I was sixteen.”

“I get it, I'm the love of your life,” Ian says, amused. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes, if you would let me finish,” Harry says. Ian is not helping his nerves, and he wants to get this out properly. He wrote it down and everything, rehearsed it until he had it down cold. “I've loved you for forty years. I left behind my old dream to, as my father charmingly put it, ‘follow the rainbow,’ although I imagine his connotations were not quite the same as mine. I have never regretted that decision. You are my sun, my moon, every star in my sky, the axis on which my world revolves. You are all my colours, my soulmate, my best friend, and I wouldn't give you up for anything in this world or the next.”

Ian frowns, “Harry, are you feeling alright?”

“I've never been better.” Harry gets to one knee, and Ian freezes, his eyes going wide. “I know we talked about it, ages ago, but now that lawmakers have finally gotten off their arses and gotten with the times, would you, Ian Hamish Campbell, do me the tremendous honour of marrying me?”

Ian gapes at him, and says nothing. Harry shifts uncomfortably, “Ian?”

“It’s legal? They actually...they actually did it?”

Harry nods. He winces, “Um, darling? An answer, please?”

“Oh!” Ian laughs, “Sorry! Yes, of course I'll marry you. Idiot.” He pulls Harry to his feet and kisses him, and Harry slips the ring on his finger.

Ian looks down at it, “How long have you had this?”

“Since I heard they were debating the law. Don't worry, you don't have to wear it. I know it'll get in the way of your work. I just didn't want to propose without, you know, an actual ring.”

Ian rubs his finger over it, testing the feel of the metal, “I do like it. Just maybe not to wear.” He looks up at Harry and smiles, “We'll figure something out.”

“We always do,” Harry says. Smugly, he adds, “And I know we beat James and Percival to it. With Percival out of the country, they probably won't even get engaged until James gets back. Although, if we hurry, we can brag about it to him in person before he leaves.”

Ian rolls his eyes, “Do what you want, Harry. Some of us have actual work to do.” He reopens the laptops and goes back to what he was doing, but he glances at the ring on his finger every so often and smiles.

Harry wraps his arms around his fiancee’s neck and kisses the top of his head. This is it. Nothing can separate them now.


	8. Oh, Baby, It’s Russian Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the Lancelot trials and the Valentine conspiracy, Ian thought it couldn't get any worse. He was wrong.

Ian is not happy. Between the new Lancelot recruits failing their first test (Amelia always dies, poor girl), the fact that they’re even having Lancelot trials in the first place, and quite literally cleaning up the mess Harry left at the pub earlier that day, Ian is definitely not happy.

Even seeing Harry’s unperturbed grin as he walks into their living room does nothing to improve his mood.

“Hello, darling,” he greets from his spot on the couch as he sets aside the book he was reading. “And how is my most beloved soulmate feeling this evening?”

“Annoyed at your peacocking arse,” Ian grumbles. He stands in front of Harry with his arms folded. “Do you know what I had to do today on top of dealing with the water test?”

Harry opens his mouth to reply with some smart answer, but Ian cuts him off. “I had to send in Percival and Gawain to track down the people from the pub and dose them with amnesia darts. And then, I had to send Olivia to replace all the shit you broke in said pub--glassware, furniture, decorations, _and_ alcohol--and she was not amused to be assigned as, and I quote, ‘Grandad Galahad’s clean up crew.’ So I’m not feeling particularly joyous this evening.”

Harry frowns at him. “I wasn’t going to very well let them talk like that to Eggsy or myself. They called him a rent boy and insinuated that I paid for his escort services.”

“But did you have to use the Rainmaker, the shock bracelet, and the stun bullet?”

“I had to impress Eggsy.”

Ian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He began balding at the age of eight, he swears.

“You couldn’t have even darted the rest of Dean’s goons before you left?”

“Well that hardly would’ve made my exit as smooth.”

Ian can’t choose between laughing at Harry or throttling him. How he ended up with this ridiculous man as his soulmate, he’ll never know, but, as the cliche goes, at least he was never bored. He instead shakes his head and sits next to the empty spot on Harry’s right, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the couch. He feels Harry take his left hand in his, tracing the spot on his ring finger, and turns to look at him. “If I had anymore hair left to lose, it would be because of you.”

“If you had anymore hair, you’d shave it off anyway because you enjoy looking like a stern eagle.”

“Well, we can’t all have locks of flowing hair like yours, princess.”

Harry smiles and leans his head onto Ian’s shoulder, and Ian moves to wrap his arm around him.

“I’m sorry for making your day difficult, darling,” he hears Harry murmur. “I really am.”

Ian turns his head slightly to kiss the top of Harry’s head. “And I forgive you. Just…please try and be less reckless?”

“Anything for you, love.”

\---

He set off a grenade and jumped out a window. No matter how many times Ian replays the feed recorded from Harry’s glasses, all he can think of is ‘ _Anything for you, love_ ,’ quickly followed by his theatrical as all hell fiance leaping out of a window with an explosion behind him.

If I had anymore hair, he thinks with frustration.

He looks over at Harry’s unconscious form from the chair sitting next to his hospital bed and takes Harry’s left hand in his. He gently traces the cursive ‘I’ that’s printed on Harry’s ring finger, the compromise the two of them had come up with when wearing both the signet ring and his wedding band got in the way of missions.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t have been able to stay away from dramatics, Harry,” Ian says, still holding his hand, “but a coma is a bit much even for you, don’t you think?”

Harry, of course, doesn’t respond, and Ian doesn’t know what else he expected. “That boy of yours is worried sick over you,” he continues. “Keeps on coming in to visit, asking if there’s any updates.”

Ian keeps on looking at Harry, willing the man to move something. A finger, a toe, an eyelid, anything. Just one sign to let him know that his Harry will wake up and offer some horrid line about it all being a day’s work or just being a flesh wound, but Ian gets nothing.

“You’ve been out for a month now, Harry. I’ve spent so much time in here, that Olivia had them bring me in a recliner,” he chuckles. “Said she refuses to become Vivian if her Merlin ruins his old man back by sitting in a flimsy plastic chair for hours on end.”

Ian pauses again, but sighs. “I miss you, Harry. I need you to wake up, okay? The only thing that’s not making me lose my mind is the fact that I am still seeing colour. So…you make sure I keep seeing that, alright?”

A ping comes from his glasses and Ian curses under his breath. “I have to go now love. Taking the candidates through the obstacle course today.” He stands up and leans over, placing a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead. “I’ll be back later tonight. You better be awake by the time I get here.”

He looks at Harry hopefully, but, as what’s become usual now, he doesn’t receive a response in return.

\---

As soon as Eggsy is out the door, Ian grabs Harry by the lapels of his robe and pulls him in for a kiss. He rests his forehead against Harry’s and takes in a deep breath.

“Eleven weeks and four days, Harry,” he breathes. “That is how long it took you to wake the fuck up.”

Harry chuckles, the sound music to Ian’s ears. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, darling.”

“Yeah, well,” Ian says as he takes a step back, “you’ve always been the late one between the two of us.”

“And you’re always there when I arrive.”

Ian smiles and shakes his head. “Romantic sap.”

Harry grabs the clipboard from Ian’s hands. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way. Now,” he opens the files of his previous aliases, “why don’t we decide who I shall attend Valentine’s party as? I was thinking of Mr. DeVere.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You just want to wear those hideous trousers.”

“As I remember, Aunt Isla thought it perfect for me.”

“And your mother thought it ridiculous.”

“You said I could turn the Campbell tartan into whatever I wanted.”

“It’s a disgrace to the family name.” Ian shakes his head fondly and takes his clipboard back and places it on the bed. He wraps his arms around Harry’s middle and pulls him close. “But you, Harry Hart, are anything but.”

Harry smirks and gives him a soft kiss. “Now who’s being a romantic sap?”

\---

Ian tries to breath as he finishes calling the Kingsman agents to toast. He feels his world begin to crumble around him, each piece weighing heavier and heavier on his shoulders. He’d told Harry, screamed it in his ear, to exit anywhere else around the church, just not the front. But Harry, ever the hero, wanted to face his villain head on, no matter the tactical disadvantage he might’ve had. Whether it was also his own personal penance for mercilessly killing all the people inside the church, Ian couldn’t say.

Or perhaps he just didn’t want to.

“No amount of Hail Mary’s will atone for this, Merlin.”

“Except you have nothing to atone for, Harry, now _exit out the fucking back_.”

But he didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t. When Harry’s morals were on the line, no amount of handler instruction, even Ian’s, could change his mind. Valentine’s bullet flew straight at him, and all that’s left is a clear, blue sky spattered with red.

Ian’s heart stops.

A clear, blue sky spattered with red.

He shouldn’t be seeing those colours anymore. He shouldn’t be seeing _any_ colours anymore. But that means--

“Olivia, I need you and Percival in Kentucky immediately.”

Ian takes three deep breaths, trying to calm himself and stop his hands from shaking. He looks down at the delicate ‘H’ inked on his left ring finger.

If he can still see colour, then Harry is still alive.

\---

Ian puts the aeroplane in autopilot and tries to relax. He blocked out Eggsy’s video feed just in time, picked up Roxy, saved the world, and they are finally on their way back to London.

And he can still see colour.

He places the pad of his index finger to the side of his glasses. “Olivia? Are you there?”

A moment of silence, and then, “Yes, Merlin. I’m here.”

He closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief. Her voice is a bit shaken, very unlike the headstrong and snarky young woman she usually is, but he can hardly blame her. He’s just glad she’s alive.

“And Percival?”

“He’s here, too.”

Thank God. Ian doesn’t know if he could handle losing anymore people in his life.

“Where are you?”

“Still in the plane, trying to figure out where to land. We were high enough away that Valentine’s signal didn’t reach us, but that meant circling above Louisville for a few hours.”

“And how are you?”

He’s met with silence, and Ian suddenly realises this is the first time she was actually close to the carnage that their job sometimes entails. Granted, this was an exceptionally extreme case, and herself and Percival were blessedly out of range, but it was a lot to process for someone who had never gone into the field before this.

“I’m fine,” she finally says. “There was…a brief moment. Where Percival and I had an altercation when we were lowering to land. But…I don’t even know how it happened. But we moved the steering wheel, and we were out of range, and we just…stopped trying to kill each other.”

Ian’s heart clenches at that. They were so close, _so close_ , to being casualties of V-Day, but their names wouldn’t have been ones on memorials. Olivia and Percival would be victims, but not statistics.

“But you’re okay? Both of you?”

“Yes, a few bruises and scratches. Percival has a dislocated shoulder, but I set it back in and gave him a sling from the medical case on the plane. So overall, yes. We’re okay.” He hears Olivia take a shuddery breath. “Merlin, I was going to fly this plane into a building. I wanted to kill as many people as possible. If Percival and I hadn’t fought over the controls, we wouldn’t have gone as high as we did to get out of range of Valentine’s sim cards. If Percival hadn’t been with me, if I had gotten us lower than we already were--”

“But you didn’t,” Ian says firmly. “You did well, Olivia. You and Percival stayed safe and away. And you’re still continuing your mission. I’m proud of you.”

“You old sap.” A watery laugh comes through the comms. “Thanks, Merlin. We’re about to land now. I’ll report to you as soon as we reach the church.”

“Good work, Olivia. I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”

He closes the comms and blinks, his eyes growing dry. He didn’t dare close them for too long, keeping them open to make sure the world around him was still in technicolour. When he makes sure the sky is still blue and the walls in the cockpit are honey brown, he gets up and moves to the cabin.

There are two other young Kingsman workers he has to check in on.

\---

“What the fuck do you mean he’s not there?”

“I’m sorry, Merlin, but there’s nothing. No body, no trace, nothing to indicate that Galahad was here.”

“Then you better check again, Percival, and the entire surrounding area within fifty meters because that is where he was left.”

He hears Percival sigh on the other end and steels himself for what he knows is coming. “I know this is hard, Ian,” he says softly, “but…you just have to accept that Harry--”

“The bird that’s sitting in that tree you’re facing is light fucking blue and has brown on the front of it. The leaves next to it are three different shades of green, and you have light fucking pink pinstripes on that bespoke suit you’re wearing right now. So unless you can explain to me why I’m still seeing the world in fucking colour, I expect you to search the surrounding area within fifty meters, _because that is where he was left_.”

Ian sees Olivia come into view in Percival’s feed, facing the bird that he was describing. “He’s right,” she says. “The bird is blue. If he can still see colour, then he’s still alive.” She then turns to face Percival, looking directly into his glasses. “But we can’t find him. We’ve looked and scanned and there’s nothing, using everything that you sent us with. We’ll find Grandad Galahad, Merlin. Just not here.”

He clenches his jaw and grips hard on the plane’s steering wheel. He lets out a sigh in resignation after a moment, though. Olivia and Percival wouldn’t tell him this just so they could finish their mission, they’d say it because it was the truth. Harry wasn’t there. But the world was still filled with colour, so maybe he’d just have to live with that for now.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Fly back to London as soon as possible, then. We’ll debrief when you two are back.”

“Yes, sir,” Olivia says. She cuts off her comms and walks out of Percival’s view.

“We’ll find him, Ian,” Percival repeats Olivia. “I promise. Just keep reminding yourself that he’s alive.”

Percival’s feed and comms go off, and Merlin takes off his glasses to rub his hands on his face. After taking a moment, he puts them back on and turns on the comms for Roxy and Eggsy in the cabin.

“We’ll be landing soon, you two. Buckle up.”

He takes in three deep breaths as he begins their descent.

“I’ll find you, Harry,” he mumbles. “I swear to God, as long as I’m still seeing colour, I will find you.”


	9. Oh, Baby, I'll Never Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is harder: remembering or not?

_ 10 December 2015 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ That lovely woman with the strange name suggested that I keep a journal, that perhaps recording my thoughts will bring some clarity, or maybe even help to bring back the portions of my memory that appear to be missing. I was, initially, skeptical, although there seems to be some merit to the suggestion, because sitting here, pen in hand and writing a letter to no one, I’m getting the strangest sense of deja vu. I’m fairly confident I never kept a journal before (even just writing the phrase ‘dear diary’ makes me feel like a prepubescent girl) but it’s possible I had one for field work or something of that ilk. _

_ Other than my name, which unfortunately seemed to turn up no results in the database (or possibly too many. They won’t tell me much, but either way it appears it was unhelpful), the only thing I feel I can say with reasonable certainty is that I’m a lepidopterist. I mean, I remember loving butterflies. I know all their names, scientific and otherwise. I’m almost positive I have some schooling in it, which means it’s more than just a hobby. Of course, I could be interpreting these little clues to who I am incorrectly. As I said, Ginger Ale and her people will not share much information with me. They all give me strange looks, like they’re nervous, whenever they come to visit me in this cell. I haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask why yet, nor have I managed to ask why they’re keeping me locked up. When she first put me in here, Ginger explained that keeping me here was for everyone’s safety, whatever that means. _

_ I’m not sure how I can be a lepidopterist if I haven’t found my soulmate. Surely the black and white vision makes the work difficult? My fifties seem a bit old to not have found them (him? I have a rather strong inclination that I’m gay) yet. Or maybe I have, but the amnesia is affecting it? I’ll ask Ginger if she knows anything about the effects of amnesia on a soulmate bond the next time I speak with her. There is one clue in that regard: I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but on my ring finger I have a tattoo. It looks fairly fresh, so I can’t imagine it’s more than a year or so old. It’s a sort of loop shape, most likely an uppercase cursive i, although I’m not positive. His first initial, perhaps? Or is that reading into it too much? If I have met my soulmate, I wonder why he hasn’t come for me. Does he not know what happened? Or is he looking for me and simply can’t find me? I’ve only been here a few days, or so they tell me. If he’s out there, surely he must still be looking. _

_ There are too many uncertainties. I don’t like not knowing. I suppose I’ll leave off here. I’m tired; they’ve been running tests most of the day, trying to understand what’s going on in my brain, I imagine. When they find out, I’d love to be filled in, because I don’t know either. _

_ Exhausted but hopeful, _

_ Harry Hart _

 

_ 14 December 2015 _

_ Hello Harry, _

_ It’s been twenty days since you’ve gone missing. Yes, gone missing, because there is no way in hell I’m accepting any other explanation, not when that old jumper of yours is still violet and Mr. Pickle’s fur still brown.  _

_ This feels ridiculous, writing a letter that won’t get any reply. Olivia suggested this, though. Said it might be cathartic, and…well, I suppose it’s better that drowning myself in scotch every night. God, how long has it been since I’ve written you a letter… not since you were at Cambridge and I was working in that electronic shop.  _

_ You see, Harry? It’s been thirty-four years since I last wrote ‘Hello Harry’ instead of simply saying those words to your face. Thirty-four years of being by your side or in your ear. You once said we had already spent seven years of our lives apart, and you “followed the rainbow” so we wouldn’t spend anymore in the same manner. Well, the rainbow is still here, and now you’re gone.  _

_ It was always you who went away, wasn’t it? First Eton, then Cambridge, and now. I thought the army would be my turn to take the leave, but you wouldn’t even let me have that. _

_ Today’s a big day for us, you know. 14 December 1976, we saw colour for the first time. 14 December last year is the day marriage for the whole community became legal here, and it was also the day you proposed. Our rings are sitting in my new flat, hanging inside that lovely display case you bought the day we got our tattoo initials.  _

_ Oh, right. I gave Eggsy our old house. I’m sorry, Harry, but I just couldn’t stay in there. The idea of coming home to  _ our _ home and you not being there…it hurts too much. And I know you’re alive and somewhere out there, but we still can’t find you. _

_ There has been one development in that, though. After settling the world down in the aftermath of V-Day, we found security footage from Valentine’s files of the day at the church. There’s missing footage. It cuts off right after Valentine shot you and they leave, but right before the video stops, there’s a whirring sound, like a helicopter.  _

_ I’m certain whoever it was in that helicopter has something to do with you.  _

_ I’m going to find you, Harry. I’ll find you and bring you back home, just like always. Just…make sure I can still tell you what colour my eyes are, alright? They’re dark brown right now. They never do ever come close to matching those honey browns of yours.  _

_ I love you, _

_ Ian _

 

_ 20 December 2015 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ I overheard Ginger and one of her companions talking today. Tequila, I think his name is. I’m not sure if the names are so strange around here because they’re American, or if they’re simply codenames. But then, that makes it sound like I’m in a spy film, and that’s rather ridiculous. Now I’ve got a craving for a Bond film. Not that they let me watch videos in here. Ginger has brought me a few butterfly books. Some I think I might have read before, or maybe I just already know everything in them. Who can say? _

_ Anyway, as I was saying, I overheard them talking. Tequila was quite irate. I heard something about V-day (Valentine’s day? It’s a little late to be discussing it from last year, and he talks as if it happened recently) and a church. It sounded….quite frankly it sounded dreadful. I didn’t catch all of it, but I think perhaps another Valentine’s day massacre, or something of that sort, must have occurred. And...I think they think I was involved somehow. I want to deny it, and I certainly don’t remember it, but...here, in the privacy (hah! I’m sure they’re watching me even now. Or perhaps I’m paranoid as well) of my padded cell, the thought evokes something dark and unsettling in my gut. I haven’t said anything about it. If they know, they haven’t said anything to me. And there’s a thought I keep coming back to; what if I did? What if I did and my ‘I’ was in that church? What if, for whatever reason, whatever happened, I killed him? I had to rewrite that sentence several times to make it legible, my hand is shaking so badly at the thought. _

_ I did manage to ask Ginger about the technicolor, or lack thereof. She said there’s not much research on amnesia in regards to soulmates. Generally speaking, people are either with their soulmate when they wake up, so the world is immediately in colour, or they haven’t found their soulmate yet, so black and white isn’t a change. She did manage to find one study that suggested that losing the memory of your soulmate could unravel technicolor. I hope...I hope that my ‘I’ is still out there, that he isn’t lying dead in a church, that the only reason I can’t see my butterflies in colour, violet and green and warm brown, is because I can’t remember him. _

_ This is upsetting me, so I’m going to stop. I’m almost frightened of getting upset. If I did do...whatever it is they think I did, then surely remaining calm will prove to them...something. I can’t even think properly. I’ll try to get more answers from Ginger. She seems nice. She might answer my questions. _

_ Trying not to lose faith, _

_ Harry Hart _

 

_ —- _

 

_ 3 March 2016 _

_ Hello Harry, _

_ We’ve finally elected an Arthur, thank christ. I don’t think I would’ve been able to manage wielding the crown and the wand at the same time for much longer. Everyone voted for Lamorak pretty unanimously, with him only being slightly younger than Chester and recently going into retirement. I think that once Percival’s older, he would make a good king, but he just laughed in my face and said he’d rather be killed in action than be taken away from the field.  _

_ Also, something happened the other week…I’m afraid I might have let some things get out of hand, and, according to medical, I was malnourished and exhausted. Which makes sense as to why I passed out in the middle of the R&D labs. Olivia was not happy. And neither were Eggsy, Percival, or Roxy for that matter. They’ve gone about mother henning me until I feel as though I’m going to be drowned in cups of tea. I was put on one full week of rest, not to step foot into the estate or the shop. I’ll be back tomorrow, though. Left Olivia in charge in my place while I’ve been gone. I think it’s time I give her the name Vivian, don’t you? _

_ …God, I miss you, Harry. Where the fuck are you? I feel like we’ve scoured the entirety of the southern United States. The helicopter sounds at the end of that video clip were virtually useless. I just hope whoever took you…well, I hope they’re treating you well. I’m still seeing colour, so that’s a small relief. But I miss you. You and your butterfly ramblings and that shit eating grin of yours when you know you’ve riled me up.  _

_ I’m still looking, Harry. Please don’t think I’ve given up on you.  _

_ I love you, _

_ Ian _

_ PS. My eyes are light green. _

 

_ 11 March 2016 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ My name is Harry Hart. I am a lepidopterist. I am not a monster. _

_ I’ve written those words, oh, a dozen or so times now, and I’m still not sure I believe them. I feel like there’s a sick joke in there, something about ignorance being bliss in relation to losing all my memories, but I don’t like to think about it long enough to figure out what it is. Anyway, if there’s a joke to be made, I’m sure Tequila has made it already. _

_ What happened in that church was not me. A few weeks ago, Ginger finally relented and showed me the video. I got too uppity, I suppose. I was refusing their tests, telling them that it was cruel to keep tormenting me without me understanding why. Ever since I saw it, they’ve left me alone. Good. _

_ What sort of man murders a roomful of people, even hateful, bigoted scum of the earth, in cold blood like that? Ginger says that, given the proximity to V-day, she thinks it’s possible that I was affected by something like that on a smaller scale. I want to believe her. The only relief is that I can’t imagine my ‘I’ being there with me (not that I understand myself why I was there. Tequila flat-out told me they think I’m a spy, but I refuse to believe that.  That is not who I am). I didn’t kill him. I don’t think. But, hauntingly, when I try and reach for memories of the church, when I was watching the video, I could almost,  almost hear his voice in my ear. No. He wasn’t there. I’m certain of it. _

_ Funny, being so certain he was with me and yet not with me...this sort of paradox seems to be a constant in my life. _

_ I’ve made my decision. That’s not me. I am not a killer, not that ruthless, inhuman monster I saw on that video. I study butterflies. It’s what I like, what I’m good at. I asked Ginger for something to draw with, and I think she took pity on me, because now I have a set of coloured pencils and some paints and pens and things. I’ve been painting butterflies on my walls, labeling them. I’ve been painting them in colour. I know I met my ‘I.’ I know I saw in colour once. I can almost remember what colour looks like, and I know what colour each butterfly should be. I love the purple emperors. I think they’re my favourite. _

_ I want to see in colour again. I want it badly. But I also want my ‘I’ to stay as far away from me as he possibly can. I will not hurt him. I will not let him see… _

_ No. My name is Harry Hart. I am a lepidopterist. I am not a monster. _

_ Maybe, if I write it often enough, I’ll believe it. _

_ Harry Hart _

 

_ 17 March 2016 _

_ Hello Harry, _

_ I just got home from the strangest dinner I’ve ever had.  _

_ Eggsy invited Roxy, Percival, Olivia, and myself to have dinner tonight so we can meet his soulmate. It was at his house (our old house), and he said it would be casual and she was cooking, so we didn’t need to worry about bringing anything.  _

_ When I get there, who in god’s name would be answering the door other than Princess Tilde of Sweden. She’s actually quite sweet and charming. A good match for Eggsy, if not a completely unexpected one. You’d like her, Harry. Eggsy wants nothing more than to introduce the two of you. _

_ Olivia has also taken to her role as Vivian rather well. She’s already brought me three schematics for gadgets she’s working on, things that I could never have even dreamed of. Tracking phone applications? Drugged nail polish that can spike drinks? Eye contact versions of the glasses? She’s absolutely brilliant and will make a fine Merlin one day.  _

_ She misses you, too, Harry. Says it’s quiet without Grandad Galahad prancing around the labs. Even though Eggsy’s taken on your title with humility and pride, we’re all still holding out hope for you to come home.  _

_ Because it’s going to happen, Harry. I don’t care if I have to move God himself, I will bring you home, and I won’t have to write that my eyes are grey. You’ll be able to see for yourself.  _

_ I love you, _

_ Ian _

 

_ — _

 

_ 24 July 2016 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ I’ve been doing a lot of work with them over the past several weeks, and Ginger is very impressed with how my butterflies look. She’s compared them to the ones in my books, and she says I’ve gotten the colours exactly right. Not too bad, considering they all still look grey to me. I asked her about her soulmate, but she says she doesn’t want to talk about it. Of course, my mind immediately flashed to horors like unrequited soulmates or losing them in a crowd. I can’t imagine how that might feel...I think. ‘I’ loves me back, I think. I don’t know. I try not to think too hard about it. It’s not fair to him, but I don’t think I want to remember. _

_ Tequila and the other one who comes in occasionally, Whiskey, both see in black and white. Tequila says he hasn’t found his soulmate yet, and Whiskey won’t talk about it at all. I didn’t want to pry. Other than my butterflies, that’s mostly what I’ve been thinking about. Soulmates, I mean. If I can only get that part of my life back, none of the rest, I think I might be happy. I wonder a lot about him. What he’s like. Sometimes I get little snippets of thoughts, a snatch of his voice or a glimpse of his eyes. You know, I can never decide what colour they are? Every time I think about it I come up with a different answer. And anyway, before too long the thought slips away again and I’m left with nothing. I hope he’s not hurting too badly because of me. It’s been months now. Is he still looking? Has he given up hope? _

_ For the most part, Ginger has stopped trying to do tests on me. She’s accepted that there’s a good chance that unless some new piece of information turns up, I’m not going to get my memory back. At least, not all at once. I think the real shift in her thoughts was after today. I was a bit out of it, so the memory is hazy (it's almost funny), but apparently my heart couldn’t take the strain of what they were doing. I must have flatlined for, oh, ten seconds or so before Ginger managed to restart my heart. She said no more. She’s done. At least for now. _

_ I wonder if flatlining counts as dying. Unless he’s like me, ‘I’ should still see in colour. Did his world go black and white in those ten seconds? Ginger doesn’t know. She says she’s never seen any research on that.  _

_ I’m a bit tired now. I think maybe I’ll take a nap, and then go back to painting. Who knows? If I’m very lucky, I might even dream of ‘I’ instead of the nightmares I’ve been having. One can only hope. _

_ Harry Hart _

 

_ 24 July 2016 _

_ Harry what the fuck happened. Everything went black and white. I was in the middle of a meeting with Percival and all of a sudden, his suit turned grey. Everything around me in my office turned fucking grey, my plants, your butterfly painting, the photograph of us in Paris, it all turned black and white and grey and all the colour was gone and I didn’t know what to fucking do. And then the colours came back out of nowhere, and Percival’s forced me to take the rest of the day off because my hands can’t stop shaking, these words are barely legible. _

_ Never,  _ **_never_ ** _ do that to me again. I don’t know where the fuck you are, but if you make me think that _

_ If you ever go and _

_ Do not die, Harry Hart. You are not allowed to die, not when I don’t know where you are. I swear to god, if you die before I find you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it. This already hurts enough, being separated from you for eight months without any clue as to where you might be. _

_ I can’t do that again, Harry. I cannot go back to a black and white world. So please. I’m begging you. Don’t bring me there. Because I don’t have it in me to live in a world without you and the colours you made me see. _

_ I love you, _

_ Ian _

 

_ 4 August 2016 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ The nightmares are getting worse. I dream in colour, or at least in a ghost of colour, and I keep getting sickening flashes of red and blue and black. It’s not...it’s not a memory. It’s not. No, it’s that damn video. I saw the video and it frightened me and that’s why I’m dreaming about it. It is  not me, it is  not  my memories. _

_ I wake up screaming most nights. The first few times, Ginger rushed in to see if I was alright. Now she doesn’t even bother. There’s nothing she can do for me, not really, so I might as well live with it. Maybe it’s my penance, these dreams...no. I didn’t do anything. I have nothing to offer penance for. _

_ Well, maybe one thing. _

_ I miss my ‘I.’ It didn’t know you could do that, miss someone you never really met. Or...don’t remember meeting...amnesia makes this all a bit complicated. But I do miss him. It’s not even the colour. I’d love colour, but even if the world stayed black and white I’d give anything to see his face, to hear his voice. I wish I knew what he looked like, what he sounded like. Did he love me back? Were we happy together? I want to know every detail about him, his favourite colour, his favourite singer, how we met, how we fell in love. _

_ Maybe the dreams are penance for him. For abandoning him. For hurting him, in whatever way that means. For wanting to see him again, even though there is no outcome there that doesn’t hurt everyone involved. It’s selfish of me. But still. I want it. _

_ I don’t really have anything else to say. _

_ Harry Hart _

 

_ \--- _

 

_ 30 October 2017 _

_ Hello Harry, _

_ The world is still colour. Kingsman is still saving the day. And I still haven’t found you. _

_ Percival and I were sharing a drink in the library the other night, reminiscing like old men in front of a fire. Eggsy, Roxy, and Olivia came in and asked if they could join us. It’s amazing how one mission between a handler and an agent could create a bond for life. _

_ And then, it just turned into story time, regaling the tales of Galahad, Lancelot, Percival, and Merlin. The three young'uns were enthralled the whole time, jumping in to ask questions or ask if you’d really gone and leaped through a car window as it was speeding down the M25 just to jump on top of another car going just as fast. James could never be outdone, of course, and attempted the same thing, but with a backflip. The two of you always did enjoy trying to outdo each other, much to mine and Percival’s frustration. _

_ …It’d be nice to hear from you, Harry. Have you tried contacting me, any of us, at all since that day in Kentucky? Or…do you not want to come back? Do you…do you feel as though I failed you, letting you get into that fucking church in the first place? It’s been so damn long, Harry. I’m still trying to find you, but fuck, I’m starting to run out of options. I’m only one man, I don’t have an endless amount of tricks up my sleeve, and, despite my title, I don’t actually know any magic to make you appear from a hat. _

_ Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I keep letting you down. The church, not finding you…But I promise, Harry, I still haven’t given up. _

_ I will never give up on you. Just…could you help me out a little bit. Anything. Anything to let me know where you could be. _

_ I need you. And I need to know if you still need me, too. _

_ And, my eyes are grey… _ _ god why do I still _

_ I love you, _

_ Ian _

 

_ 16 November 2017 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ It’s been...oh, I think it’s coming up on two years since they put me in here. I ran out of space for my butterflies, and Ginger was very lovely and obliging when she took them down and put up fresh walls for me to paint on. I think she’s trying to keep me happy. I think she knows I’m going a bit stir crazy in here. And we all know what happens when...heh. No. _

_ I’m still no closer to my proper memories, but as I’ve been writing over the past entries, I’m taking what I do know and piecing together a little life for myself. Who knows when I’m going to get out of here, so I might as well enjoy a bit of a fantasy, right? _

_ I still can’t call him anything other than ‘I.’ It feels wrong, trying to call him something else when I don’t know his proper name. And I try not to picture him. I always imagine him behind me, wrapping his arms around me, whispering in my ear. I feel safe when I think about it. I feel protected. _

_ I imagine he supports me in my lepidoptery. What he does...oh, I’m not sure. Something he can travel for, so he’s always by my side. And he likes the purple emperors like I do. They’re his favourite too. Maybe. It’s a lovely thought, at any rate. _

_ Tequila thinks I’m quite mad, and on the rare occasions Whiskey is around he seems more amused by me than anything. I don’t like him much. Tequila I do like; he seems harmless, more or less, and perhaps a bit rough around the edges, but he has a good heart. I think he might be in a bit of trouble. I know I hadn’t met him before, but he gives me the strangest sense of deja vu. Ginger, too, on occasion. She’s brilliant, really, and sometimes she’ll push her glasses up her nose in this particular way and I’ll get this sense of...honey brown warmth. I don’t know how else to describe the feeling. _

_ Holidays are right around the corner. Who knows? Maybe, if I’m very good, they might even let me out for a bit. A Christmas present to me. I’ve made peace with this life. I’ve adapted, and remarkably well, I think. So long as nothing upsets it, I think I can make this work. _

_ Harry Hart _

 

_ 24 November 2017 _

_ Harry _

_ It’s gone. Everything we ever worked for. _

_ I fucking missed it. I don’t know how I could’ve missed it. Of course I should’ve made Eggsy take the damn arm with him out of the cab. My satellites should’ve been able to catch the location of the missiles before they even reached England. All of the agents’ houses should’ve had _

_ Our house is gone. _

_ Harry I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t protect Kingsman, I couldn’t even protect our fucking home. What good am I to this world if I can’t even take care of what’s most important in my life. _

_ But the mission comes first. As always. No time for emotion. Eggsy’s asleep in my guest bedroom right now. We’re beginning the doomsday protocol first thing in the morning. Whatever the fuck that is. _

_ Is it possible to see colour with a black and white filter? Because I can see your old as shit violet jumper sitting next to me, but it seems…dull. Or maybe that’s just me. _

_ Enough of that, though. I should get some sleep. The mission come first. Whatever the fuck that is. _

_ I’m sorry again, Harry. I’ve let you down in more ways than I ever thought possible. I don’t blame you if you’ve given up on me. _

_ I…I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I just wish you were here with me. Or is that too selfish a thought now? _

_ I love you. I love you so fucking much. _

_ Ian _

_ PS. On a plane now. To Kentucky. Louisville, Kentucky. Please…please be there, Harry. _


	10. This Is A Crash Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting for the second time is harder than the first.

Harry looks up when the door to his room opens, and he is a bit taken aback by the stranger rushing at him. The young man goes in for a hug, but Harry stiffens and sticks out his hand reflexively, blocking the action. “How do you do?” he asks. Then, because if this boy knows who he is… “Have we met before?” Is this it? Is his past catching up to him? Conflicted feelings burn in Harry’s gut, and he dreads the answer.

“Harry,” the boy says slowly, “It’s okay. They know we know you.”

“I think there must be some mistake.” Harry doesn’t want to know him. He very much doubts this boy knows Harry Hart, lepidopterist, and he doesn’t want to know who he thinks he is.

Someone steps up from behind the boy and says, “Harry, it’s been a long time and my brogues need to be resoled.”

Harry doesn’t respond, because in that moment, the world bursts into colour. The white walls glow brighter, his butterflies popping in glorious shades of blue and green and violet. The pink stripes on the boy’s tie, the green and blue pattern on his soulmate’s ( _his soulmate’s_ ) jacket.

The boy must take Harry’s stunned, delighted silence for confusion, because he adds, “Yeah, my oxfords are done in too.”

Harry ignores that. He doesn’t take his eyes off the bald man, who is watching him with a hint of confusion and fear in his eyes. “It’s you,” Harry says softly.

Carefully, the man asks, “You know who I am?”

“You’re my soulmate.” Harry smiles, “I was hoping you’d come find me. You have the most beautiful green eyes.”

“Harry...what’s my name?”

The smile disappears. He glances at Ginger, who is standing in the doorway, her face impassive. He bites his lip, rubbing his thumb over the tattoo on his finger. “I don’t know,” he admits in a small voice. “I...it begins with ‘I,’ doesn’t it?”

He looks up just in time to see his soulmate’s heart shatter behind his eyes. “Ian,” his says, his Scottish accent suddenly rougher. “My name is Ian. People usually call me Merlin.”

“Strange nickname,” Harry says. He offers another smile, “We were married, then?”

Ian (Merlin? ‘People’ usually call him that, but does Harry count as people?) looks around the room, at the boy, at Ginger, at the butterflies Harry has painted on the wall. Finally, he looks back at Harry. “We were engaged,” he says. “You really don’t remember?”

Harry shakes his head. Quietly, he says, “I know I’m a lepidopterist.” He wants to see what Ian says to that.

Ian’s eyes go to the butterflies again, and he nods. “You wanted to be,” he says. “Excuse us a minute, will you?” And he all but drags the boy back into the hall with him.

\---

Harry is nervous. Very nervous. Ian and Ginger had taken him out for a few more brain scans, and he’d heard them talking about more _tests_. But then they’d put him back in here without saying anything. Harry hadn’t even gotten an opportunity to speak to Ian alone.

He’s...well, he’s more than Harry could have dreamed he’d be. The bald look suits him, as do his glasses. His Scottish brogue walks the perfect line of seeming comforting and dangerous, and his eyes...they _change colour_.

Harry hesitates, then reaches for his diary. He’s fairly certain they’re watching him now, but it’s not like they can read what he’s writing and he really wants to write about Ian, his mysterious ‘I’ who has found him at last.

And then the room starts to fill with water.

He blanks out most of it, his adrenaline on high alert, and when he comes back to himself again he’s shivering and gasping for air and a pair of strong arms are wrapped around him as a soothing voice croons in his ear. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry.”

Harry wants to shrug away, but he can’t. Instead he asks weakly, “What did you do to me?”

“Ginger...we thought this might jog your memory.”

No. _No_ . He does _not_ want his memory jogged. He has Ian, he has his soulmate, and that should be enough, shouldn’t it?

He knew this was a bad idea.

Coldly, he says, “I’m a lepidopterist. I don’t know what sort of person you are where you think _drowning me_ is a likely way to make me remember, but if that’s your methodology then I don’t think I want to remember it or you.”

Ian stiffens and lets him go. He stands, “This isn’t you, Harry. I know you. I’m going to bring you back to me.”

He leaves, and Harry curls up in a ball and tries not to cry.

\---

The next two tries are just as bad. Ian stands and lets horses try to tear him apart, then ties him onto the back of a raging bull in the dark. It’s only when Harry begs and pleads with him and then nearly dies to boot that Ian sets him loose.

They’re in the gift shop now, the first time he’s been alone with Ian since this whole mess started, and Ian is watching him (always watching him, Harry’s noticed). “This has to stop,” Harry says softly. “Ian...you’re my soulmate. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Harry-”

“If you really love me, you won’t keep torturing me like this.”

Ian sighs, “Harry, I’m doing this _because_ I love you. Don’t you want to be yourself again?”

Harry thinks about the video in the church. He thinks about blood and violence and the mess that is all this spy nonsense. He thinks about being a monster.

“I am myself, Ian. You have to let me go.”

\---

He’s going home. Well, maybe not home. He supposes home is probably with Ian, but he’s not sure he wants to be with Ian anymore, not sure he wants to share a house and a life with him. They’re soulmates. He should want this. And yet, there will always be this spectre hanging between them, the ghost of a Harry Hart who doesn’t exist anymore. Harry can’t be that person for Ian. Can’t be the person that he fell in love with.

And what kind of person falls in love with a monster, anyway?

He’d spoken briefly to Eggsy, the young man who’d been with Ian. Apparently the boy was something of his apprentice. Harry shudders at the thought of taking a perfectly innocent young man and making him into something as twisted and awful as he was. That, he thinks, is almost worse than whatever happened in the church.

The nightmares are worse now than ever, not vague flashes of muted half-remembered colour but full technicolor horrors, and Harry bursts from one of those dreams now, only to open his eyes to a little Yorkie licking his face. He smiles in spite of himself, “Hello.”

“Got you a little leaving present,” Eggsy says, and Harry shifts to look at him. “He’s lovely, isn’t he?” Before Harry can respond, Eggsy raises a pistol and aims it at the dog. Casually, oh so casually, he says, “Think I should shoot it?”

Harry gasps, reeling backwards, because this has to still be a dream, there’s no way this is real, no way this boy is going to murder the dog cradled in Harry’s arms. “Are you quite mad?” he demands. “You’ll have to shoot me! No one’s sick enough to shoot a puppy!”

“You were, Harry. Do you remember?”

No! No he doesn’t, he would never-

Something snaps in Harry’s brain like puzzle pieces falling together, the memory shooting across his mind like a bullet, and he shouts, “It was a blank! It was a fucking blank! I would _never_ hurt Mr. Pickle! He lived to a ripe old age. He died of pancreatitis, he…” Harry shudders, looking down at the puppy in his arms. “You’re not Mr. Pickle.” The puppy licks his nose.

“Yes, Harry,” Eggsy says, sounding thrilled and relieved.

Harry turns to look at him. It’s not all quite back yet, everything still slotting into place, but he’s got a much better idea of what’s going on now. “Eggsy?”

His protege launches himself at Harry, wrapping him up in a tight hug that makes the puppy whimper. Harry pushes him away, “Eggsy, Valentine-”

“We took care of it,” Eggsy assures him.

Right. It’s been two years. V-day was nearly two years ago.

Two years... _shit_. Ian.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Ian’s voice rings out in the doorway, “I suppose I should cancel that taxi, then?”

Harry passes the puppy off to Eggsy and, much like the boy had just done to him, throws himself at his soulmate. Ian gathers him up in his arms, “Hello, Harry.”

“I’m so sorry, Ian, I’m sorry I forgot, I love you, I’m so-”

“It’s okay,” Ian murmurs. He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead, then one to his lips. “It’s okay. I love you too.”

He’s not completely back to himself. There are bits still missing. But they’ll come back, he’s sure of it. And for now, that’s enough.

\---

They’ve been working through the mission. Harry knows he’s been snapping at everyone, but he really can’t help it. They all still doubt him, still treat him like he’s fragile, and no, he hadn’t remembered Ian’s favourite singer, but at the time that hadn’t exactly been pressing.

He wants to go back and slap himself.

“You okay?” Eggsy asks carefully, and he’s not, he’s really not, because his soulmate just stepped off a bloody landmine and Harry thinks he’s going to be sick. Blood is rushing through his head, roaring in his ears, and there is no trace of lepidopterist Harry Hart anymore because now all he wants to do is _kill_ someone responsible. Poppy will do nicely.

“Let’s save the fucking world,” he says, and they do. He deals with Poppy’s dogs and meets Elton John in all his flamboyant rainbow glory and gets the password from Poppy and puts that traitor Whiskey (Harry never liked him, even with amnesia) in the meat grinder and he and Eggsy save the world.

He sits on the front steps of the diner and takes a breath. Eggsy sits down next to him, “Seriously, Harry, you okay?”

“No,” Harry says. “No, I’m not fucking okay. My soulmate is fucking dead-” Wait. The seats in the diner are cherry red and the jungle around them is lush green and Elton John had been every colour of the fucking rainbow and _oh_.

Eggsy frowns, “Harry?”

“He’s alive.”

“What?”

“He’s alive, Eggsy. Merlin’s alive.”

Eggsy takes a look at the determined expression on Harry’s face and stands up. “Alright, then. Let’s go find him and bring him home.”


	11. Epilogue - We're Living the Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things, as usual, have a way of working out.

Ian paces outside of the dining room of their newly purchased home where Harry is looking over files for the new agent recruits. He is suddenly far too aware of how Harry must have felt three years ago this day, waiting outside the dining room of a different home, being unsure of what the outcome may be. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before slowly entering and making his presence known. 

Harry looks up briefly and smiles before turning his attention back to the documents in front of him. “Good morning, darling. Sorry I wasn’t in bed when you woke up, I really wanted to look over the candidates for Lamorak, and Olivia just sent me all of their files. She still calls me Grandad Galahad, do you know that?”

Ian clears his throat and tries to stop the pounding of his heart. “I tell her nearly everyday to call you Arthur, but she says Grandad Arthur doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Harry smiles slightly as he moves on to the next file. “She is certainly a lively spirit. You’ve done well with her, love.”

Despite his nerves, Ian can’t help but feel proud at that. “Olivia will make an excellent Merlin one day,” he says.

“But I’m glad to have her as Vivian while my Merlin is by my side,” Harry says. 

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same.” Ian pauses for a moment, just watching Harry scan each piece of paper intently, not wanting to miss out on the smallest of details. He couldn’t blame him, really. They don’t want anymore Charlie mishaps. 

“Harry,” Ian begins, “love, can we talk?”

This makes Harry stop abruptly, pausing before he sets the dossiers down and turns to look at Ian, concern etched across his face. “Is everything alright, darling?”

“Yes,” Ian says immediately. “Yes, everything is…well, it’s perfect, really.”

“Then what—“

“I’ve never been good with words,” Ian cuts him off, wanting to have this conversation before he loses his nerve. 

Harry raises a brow at the interruption and scoffs. “I have nearly ten years worth of handwritten letters proving that wrong.”

Ian rolls his eye. “Fine, I’ve never been good with  _ spoken _ words. Is that better?”

“I suppose,” Harry says with a smile. “What’s all this about, Ian?”

Ian keeps a steady gaze on Harry as he takes a breath, and carefully gets down on one knee, watching as his soulmate, best friend, partner,  _ everything _ for the past forty-something years widens his eye, his mouth falling open slightly. It’s not often Ian catches Harry off guard, and he can’t help but smile at the shock and wonder on his face. 

“You once wrote that you loved me, ring or no. And as for weddings, someday we’ll see. Someday was supposed to be three years ago. But…I suppose the universe decided the time wasn’t right. Well,” he lets out a breathy laugh and shakes his head, “I say that now sounds just right. Harry Hart,” he opens the box, revealing the same rings that Harry had proposed with before everything happened, “will you marry me?”

A disbelieving smile makes its way onto Harry’s face. “I may have lost my memory for a while, but I distinctly remember already asking you this.”

Ian smiles bigger and shrugs. “I thought enough time has passed that we needed a renewal.”

“You ridiculous, extraordinary, brilliant, impossible man,” Harry says. “I promised to marry you once, and I intend on making good on that promise. Of course I will. Now, get up off the floor before you hurt yourself.”

Ian laughs and stands up, meeting Harry as he does the same and pulls him in for a soft kiss, smiling as he feels Harry being unable to contain his grin as well. Harry is the one to pull away and rests his forehead against Ian’s, the pinnacle of happiness and contentment displayed on his face.

“My soulmate,” Harry murmurs. “When we first met, did you ever think this would happen?”

“When we first met, I was eight and all I knew was that a ten-year-old boy nearly dislocated my shoulder by dragging me to his mother’s greenhouse.”

Harry chuckles. “And I haven’t regretted that decision since.”

Ian gives him one more kiss. “Neither have I, Harry. Butterflies and all.”


End file.
